Maybe it's the PMS talking ...
Picture this: you’re on Interstate oh, I don’t know … 94; heading west. Doing the speed limit because you’re in city limits. Seems normal, right? Maybe in your town, but not in mine!
Here in the frozen tundra, drivers breathlessly refer to the stretch of six-lane traffic with three exits that runs through town as “the freeway.” Freeway is such an intimidating word in these parts. When spoken aloud, it’s almost in the hushed tones we reserve for using the “c” word … cancer. We don’t deal with freeways every day, so clearly they are something to be feared. Such to the point that when confronted with an on-ramp of any nature, we bravely accelerate to three-quarters the speed limit, and slow down when coming abreast of another car; the mere presence of which is enough to make us pucker in parts Midwesterners generally don’t speak about. We glance, furtively, at the car next to us. By now, they are well aware of our presence and we engage in a little telepathic tango. Is the other person speeding up?
Thus, those engaged in the herky-jerky dance of merging continue until someone gathers their balls about them, squeezes their eyes shut and races ahead, narrowly missing the semi truck jockeying for position to use the next exit.
Funny, huh? Not if you’re not originally from here. Not if you grew up in the Southwest and learned to drive in LA on a Monday morning while sucking latte and yammering on a cell phone.
As the poor slob trapped in the vehicle behind you, I offer this:
Learn to drive, Myrtle! No where, I mean NO WHERE does it say the definition of “right of way” is “whatever the guy in the blue sedan wants since he’s already up on the freeway.” Adjust your speed. Be doing the posted speed limit by the time you are at the merge point. I know this is going to blow your mind, but those cute little ramps are for accelerating. It’s the long, vertical pedal on the right; give ‘er a whirl! Don’t stop at the top. No, I’m serious: if you get up there and see cars slowing down to let you in, speed up some more. I know that your Scandahoovian upbringing dictates you to allow others to go ahead of you, but truly, in this situation, the right thing to do is butt on ahead.
Next week, we’ll talk about the fist-fight I saw at a four-way stop. ‘Something about “no you go first, no YOU go first” …
God, I love Fargo.