(Passive-)Aggressive Driving

I have to admit, I was nervous about moving to the Twin Cities. The city part of the equation wasn't really the problem; five years of living in (well, near) Boston made me fairly well acquainted with the ups and downs of urban life. It was that pesky "Twin" that was troubling me - or, more specifically, the distance that the word implied. Last year, I could walk from the grocery store to my house and be in two different cities; here, it takes at least twenty minutes to drive from one twin to the other - without traffic. And the traffic part of it all was really the issue. I had never driven on anything wider than four lanes across in total, and was not looking forward to the challenges that big city driving might present.

But there's good news: drivers here are no more annoying than they are in SE, so I can handle them without changing my tried-and-true methods for dealing with such people. These methods can best be described as passive-aggressive.

Take, for instance, an incident that happened as I was on the road between New Ulm and Sleepy Eye. I found myself behind a slow-moving - fifty in a fifty-five that everyone treats as at least a sixty - navy sedan within sight of home. "It's okay," I reasoned, "I'm close enough to town that not having enough room to pass this gentleman won't be too painful." It was masterful reasoning, truly. Unfortunately, my sedan-driving friend didn't heed my logic one whit. As we approached SE, his car actually decelerated for no disecernable reason - forty-five, then forty. By the time we rounded the last curve, he was literally going thirty miles an hour. I was not amused.

But an even less amusing event happened moments later, as we entered the official thirty mile an hour zone that takes effect within the city limits. Did my new acquaintance go thirty miles an hour? No, my friends, he did not. Instead, he sped. Yes, when he really should have been going slowly, he turned all lead-foot on me. My bitterness knew no bounds.

I remedied this situation as best I could, using all the resources available to me to convey my utter displeasure. That is to say, I talked at him. From inside my car. Where he could not hear me.

Talking-at is really my preferred method of dealing with the ever-so-intelligent folk with whom I share the road. Sometimes talking-at is merely conversational, offered with a touch of sarcasm for good measure: "Oh, you think so, do you? You really think turning right then was necessary?" On other occasions, the phrases and inflection so prevalent during my workday creep into my talking-at vocabulary: "My friend, that was not the best decision to make. You need to be more careful." Every so often, my language of choice becomes perhaps stronger than you would normally expect: "I hate you, I hate you, you moron, I hate you," uttered in measured tones as I try to merge.

When talking-at doesn't work, more drastic steps must be taken. I employ two of these: the brake-tap (which was executed to such disastrous results when last I mentioned driving) and the point. The point is fairly self-explanatory - you see something you don't like, you point. If a station wagon is crawling along, you can point at the speedometer as you drive past. If a speedy driver is weaving from lane to lane inside a tunnel (oh, the problems I have with tunnel drivers here - the solid white lines on the pavement mean do not switch lanes, you know), you can point straight ahead to indicate the sort of path said weaver should be following. And if a pickup truck is just being generally annoying, you are more than welcome to point directly at the driver as you pass to express your general exasperation.

The point is done with the index finger. If you're using a different one, you're not doing the point.

Yesterday, I pointed during my morning commute when the black sports car that was merging behind me decided that it would be wise to zip around and merge in front of me instead because that would clearly make his drive go so much more quickly. Seething, I pointed at the back of his car, simultaneously executing a rather harsh barrage of talking-at: "That was a very bad move. Bad." It was quite irate, really. Measured, but irate.

So there you have it: Passive-Aggressive Driving, A Primer. Tune in next week for more tales of commuter joy and bliss. Until then, I'll be over here, practicing my point.