That About Which I Am Not Well Pleased

Every morning, I drive through a tunnel. It's a little tunnel - three lanes, one curve, approximately two seconds of interrupted radio signal. The lanes are separated by solid white lines that begin and end a few meters beyond the tunnel's physical structure. In my mind, the meaning of these lines is clear: pick a lane, and then stay in that lane until you've emerged at the other side of the tunnel, blinking as the sun reappears. The minds of many of my co-commuters, however, seem to process the message of the white lines in a slightly different manner: "Pick a lane, and then disregard the fact that solid lines might indicate anything other than, 'Go ahead, frolic among lanes to your heart's content.'"

Each time I approach the tunnel, I contemplate changing lanes. Each time, I am physically prevented from doing so, so strong is my reaction to the appearance of the solid white lines. Meanwhile, the cars around me blithely flash red blinkers and cross the ineffectual painted barriers left and right.

I mean, seriously, people of Minnesota? You really find the thought of remaining behind the pickup going fifty for the half-minute it takes to traverse the tunnel so repugnant that you are compelled to scoot over a lane into the tiny sliver of space behind the sedan going fifty-two?

Well, apparently you do. Glad we had that talk.