Driving to work this morning, I made my usual commute call to Zoe in New York and left her a giggly, dorky message pertaining to issues of a personal nature. Clad in sweats and flops, I had my left foot propped up between my dashboard and my door as I drove, and as I hung up my phone, I moved said foot across the steering wheel in an attempt to return it to the floor while maneuvering my vehicle along Van Ness.
When my foot touched the steering wheel, my horn honked.
For approximately half a second.
Based upon the reaction of the gentleman in front of me, you’d have thought I took a shit on the hood of his Chrysler Cobra, he was so incensed. At the next red light, he exited his hunk of junk and stomped over to my open window and impending panic.
“What are you honking at?!?!?!?!”
His face was most of the way inside my car, my personal space now completely invaded. I was stunned into a rare silence.
“I said, what are you honking at?!?!?!?!”
“Uh, relax, pal.”
“I’m not your pal!”
“Okay. Relax psychotic stranger. I accidentally hit my steering wheel. A honking sound ensued. And thus, your day was apparently ruined. Jeez.”
He removed his face from within my car and stood at my window, his hands resting femininely on his uptight hips. “Nice attitude. You’re an idiot.”
Before I could utter another word, he stomped back to his ride as the light turned green. Cars passed on either side, but road rage was still putting on his seatbelt and restarting his Cobra, as I muttered furiously under my breath.
Frustrated commuters were piling up behind us, and I was pissed.
I had only one choice.