If I Were Not A Woman I Would Not Be a Wacko, I'd Just Be A Mad Man

We live on a busy street. Well, actually, it's a two-lane highway, so calling it "busy" is kind. Kind of an understatement too. The speed limit is 30 but most people seem to consider that simply a stupid suggestion. It's noisy and some of us are afraid to rake leaves or shovel snow at the edge of the road. (Or just don't feel like it.)

We let our cat out. I figure for cats at least, a short happy life is way better than a long miserable one. If I see him across the street I'm fine, but if I see him about to cross the street, I flip out and run in the house. I guess it's a good thing he's not my kid.

We let our dogs out in the back yard. There's no fence. Most of the time, unless there's some kind of wild and unusual distraction (like say, a person, walking down the sidewalk) they don't go out toward the street. We have to be careful though, they can take off pretty fast and they go immediately on auto-pilot if the wild and unusual distraction is also walking another canine.

Although none of them are ours, there are also quite a few children on our street. Within the 6 houses on each of our sides and across the street, there are seven kids under the age of 8 and more than half of them are just past being toddlers. We're two houses away from a corner where in the last three years, there have been about four accidents; the cars end up on our neighbor's lawn and have to be towed away. I've suggested Jersey barriers but I think the concern is that the person speeding who's trying to make a left-hand turn from the right lane might get hurt (as opposed to the toddler who wants to play in his yard). Jersey barriers don't exactly complement picket fences either, so there's also the eyesore factor.

So, the speeding traffic is annoying, but when we complain enough the City sends police out, and during the summer we sit on our decks and cheer when they pull people over. It bugs me, but it's not something I obsess about too much.

Sunday was a little different though.

On Sunday, as I pulled out of my driveway, a large, flatbed tow truck came barreling down in the right hand lane and passed me at a remarkably fast speed. Beloved pets and spirited, sweet little children flashed before my eyes.

I will not deny I have a short fuse at times. And sometimes when I get really pissed off, my reactions to certain events are very powerful. They feel very logical (to me).

So, when the tow truck stopped at the light at the end of the block, I pulled behind him and I sounded my horn until the driver leaned out of the cab. I also leaned out, and I yelled, "Do you know there's a speed limit on this street?"

His answer was far more clever. It went like this: "LADY, I work for the City of Manchester and I'm on my way to a bad accident! FUCK YOU!"

Before this I had just been ticked off, now, I became infuriated. So I did the perfectly sensible thing and followed him. When we got to the "really bad accident," which by any other standards would be described as a fender bender, I pulled over and got out to talk to the cop who very politely made short order of dismissing me with the advice that I call the City of Manchester.

I stood there for a second. I had been on my way to a nearby lake where my dog and I walk a trail around the edge. I was wearing a ratty pair of sweatpants and still sporting a terrific interpretation of bedhead. I had a choice: get back in my car and continue calmly on my way in the proverbial peaceful, albeit reluctant, pursuit of health and happiness (perhaps follow up later) ...OR rush home, boil through the doorway, slam out my laptop, get on the phone, and start screaming at anyone who answered any number I dialed.

Let me be perfectly clear: I am far more comfortable with the latter.

The compromise sucked. And against my better judgment, that is what I chose. I drove home to get my phone, tried to make the calls on my way to the lake, and then when I got to the lake, the trail was closed.

I could feel the blood pumping in my temples.
 

Once I got home, it took me about 45 minutes to find my laptop. I was undeterred. (No surprise there, really, I'm actually pretty used to losing my laptop -- almost as used to losing it as I am to losing my mind.) 

 

I made a list of my city officials, drafted my letter, and chain linked their emails. Then I called Performance Towing, the owner of the tow truck company, to see if they cared, and to see whether they wanted me to copy them on the letter (translation: I called Performance Towing, the owner of the tow truck company, to pick a fight). Big mistake. The next thing I know, I'm arguing with him over whether the guy was really speeding, and whether tow trucks fall within the emergency vehicle exception. By then, I was apoplectic.

Then something snapped. I have felt that snap before.

It usually happens to me when I'm in a white hot anger, especially when the nature of the anger is that of indignant outrage, inspired by another's oh-so-poor-and-unacceptable-behavior, obnoxious manners, so-offensive-and-so-unacceptable, so-thoroughly-inapposite-to-those-which-I-should-be-shown, and.... so unlike those of my own... (setting aside, of course, the behavior that they deserve -- like, maybe, pulling up behind them, and yelling out the window at them).

I had this sensation of something like a hot spotlight on my forehead. It wasn't just because I started it. I did. I know I did. BUT.

He was obnoxious first. He was speeding. Plus, he said the "F" word. BUT.

I could feel the sensation getting bigger and hotter.

It was because it didn't matter.

It didn't matter. You know why it didn't matter? I'll tell you why it didn't matter. It didn't matter because I am a woman.

(Whip. Cream. And. Cherry. On. Top.)

That guy went back to his boss that night and his boss said to him, "I got a call about you today from some crazy lady" and that guy said to his boss, "yeah, that woman was a real wacko."
 

If a man had done what I did (and it's not unreasonable to believe that one of the fathers on this street might) he would be called "angry," but because I am a woman, I will be called "crazy."

But what do I know?  Apparently, I'm a wacko. I hung up and hit SEND.