I hate to admit it, but lately, I've gotten sort of . . . prejudiced . . . while I'm driving.
It all started two weeks ago, on I-95, when two lanes were pared down to one, and we all had to zipper in. If you don't know what zippering is, it's when two lanes have to merge together into one, so first a car on the left goes, then a car on the right . . . it's all very orderly as we take turns. And I know Connecticut drivers don't have great reputations, what with our instincts to ignore all traffic laws, but by golly, one thing we can do is zipper. Maybe it's because of all the left lanes that spontaneously turn into Exit Only lanes in our state. Whatever the reason, Nutmeggers are champs at zippering. We even do the thank you wave afterward, even though everyone knows we were simply zippering properly.
So there I was, waiting for my turn to zipper in, when the car next to me sped up, so that he was right next to me. I was stunned. Didn't he know it was my turn to go? I'd just let a Ford Fiesta merge in in front of me. It was my turn, then this guy was supposed to zipper in behind me.
Except he didn't. He mashed the gas pedal to the floor and started coming over in front of me, causing me to slam on my brakes. Then, to add insult to injury, he didn't even give me the thank you wave. I flipped him the bird and tailgated him for a few miles, just long enough to get a good look at his license plate.
He was from Virginia.
Maybe I would've let this go, but two days later, it happened again. This time, a woman passed me in a no-passing zone, which would've been fine (like I said, Connecticut) except she suddenly realized another car was coming at her, and she couldn't get back into the right lane without merging into me. She did not slow down and get behind me. Oh, no. She laid on her horn instead.
Let me reiterate: she was completely in the wrong, and she had the nerve to honk like I was the one at fault in this situation. Not willing to die, however, I hit the brakes, and she smugly pulled in front of me. I squinted at her plate.
Virginia.
A rage boiled up in me like I hadn't known since Hostess discontinued the Chocodile. I laid on my horn until the beepy part went dead some sixteen miles later, but did Virginia have the decency to even seem embarrassed? Heck no! She looked smug and self-righteous from what I could see of her in her side mirror, and even had the nerve to smile when my horn died. In that moment, I started hating all drivers from Virginia.
Except I'm not great at remembering what their license plates look like. It turns out that any out-of-state car I passed (except Rhode Island, Massachusetts, and Pennsylvania circa 1994, all plates I can recognize easily) earned my fury. The guy doing forty in the passing lane? "Virginia," I hissed, venom dripping off the word. Except when I flew by him on the right, his license plate might have said Florida. Didn't matter. "I hate you, Virginia!" I shouted out the window. He seemed unfazed, as Virginians, I quickly realized, often were. Unlike me, who was practically frothing at the mouth at every out-of-state plate I passed. "Get out of my state!" I yelled at the Virginian with Nebraska plates. "Learn to drive!" I spat as I cut off a guy with Pennsylvania circa 2015 tags.
That's right. I'd turned into a crazy, middle-aged, Connecticut driver who saw the devil--or Virginia drivers, whatever--everywhere she looked.
Then, this afternoon, I was signaling to turn left from the right lane, and a Virginian with Ohio plates let me go. I was so shocked I forgot to give her a thank you wave.
I guess Virginia drivers aren't all bad. But y'all need to learn how to zipper.
It all started two weeks ago, on I-95, when two lanes were pared down to one, and we all had to zipper in. If you don't know what zippering is, it's when two lanes have to merge together into one, so first a car on the left goes, then a car on the right . . . it's all very orderly as we take turns. And I know Connecticut drivers don't have great reputations, what with our instincts to ignore all traffic laws, but by golly, one thing we can do is zipper. Maybe it's because of all the left lanes that spontaneously turn into Exit Only lanes in our state. Whatever the reason, Nutmeggers are champs at zippering. We even do the thank you wave afterward, even though everyone knows we were simply zippering properly.
So there I was, waiting for my turn to zipper in, when the car next to me sped up, so that he was right next to me. I was stunned. Didn't he know it was my turn to go? I'd just let a Ford Fiesta merge in in front of me. It was my turn, then this guy was supposed to zipper in behind me.
Except he didn't. He mashed the gas pedal to the floor and started coming over in front of me, causing me to slam on my brakes. Then, to add insult to injury, he didn't even give me the thank you wave. I flipped him the bird and tailgated him for a few miles, just long enough to get a good look at his license plate.
He was from Virginia.
Maybe I would've let this go, but two days later, it happened again. This time, a woman passed me in a no-passing zone, which would've been fine (like I said, Connecticut) except she suddenly realized another car was coming at her, and she couldn't get back into the right lane without merging into me. She did not slow down and get behind me. Oh, no. She laid on her horn instead.
Let me reiterate: she was completely in the wrong, and she had the nerve to honk like I was the one at fault in this situation. Not willing to die, however, I hit the brakes, and she smugly pulled in front of me. I squinted at her plate.
Virginia.
A rage boiled up in me like I hadn't known since Hostess discontinued the Chocodile. I laid on my horn until the beepy part went dead some sixteen miles later, but did Virginia have the decency to even seem embarrassed? Heck no! She looked smug and self-righteous from what I could see of her in her side mirror, and even had the nerve to smile when my horn died. In that moment, I started hating all drivers from Virginia.
Except I'm not great at remembering what their license plates look like. It turns out that any out-of-state car I passed (except Rhode Island, Massachusetts, and Pennsylvania circa 1994, all plates I can recognize easily) earned my fury. The guy doing forty in the passing lane? "Virginia," I hissed, venom dripping off the word. Except when I flew by him on the right, his license plate might have said Florida. Didn't matter. "I hate you, Virginia!" I shouted out the window. He seemed unfazed, as Virginians, I quickly realized, often were. Unlike me, who was practically frothing at the mouth at every out-of-state plate I passed. "Get out of my state!" I yelled at the Virginian with Nebraska plates. "Learn to drive!" I spat as I cut off a guy with Pennsylvania circa 2015 tags.
That's right. I'd turned into a crazy, middle-aged, Connecticut driver who saw the devil--or Virginia drivers, whatever--everywhere she looked.
Then, this afternoon, I was signaling to turn left from the right lane, and a Virginian with Ohio plates let me go. I was so shocked I forgot to give her a thank you wave.
I guess Virginia drivers aren't all bad. But y'all need to learn how to zipper.
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