Hold Your Honk

I wouldn’t say that I’m an overly suspicious or cautious person when it comes to the world at large. I mean, when I step into the street, I expect drivers to see me and to slow up and even stop if necessary. As a rule, when walking, I don’t worry when I pass strangers on the sidewalk. I will usually make eye contact and sometimes even exchange a benign “hey” or head nod. I will admit I’d probably give pause if approached by a bearded man in a duck suit. I always think of one of Gary Larson’s best cartoons when eyeballing any very extraordinary character, especially if dressed in bright feathers or wearing a horse’s mane from his hat, like the gentleman I saw this morning outside Walgreens. Larson labeled these folks, “Nature’s way of saying don’t touch,” and I definitely concur.

I’m actually quite comfortable even in darkened places, like subterranean garages, where every suspense movie I’ve ever seen would lead me to suspect that someone is lurking there in the shadows. I’m an overly sensate person, so smelling a cigarette in an underground garage would definitely put me on my guard. Let’s face it, ignoring the scent of burning tobacco in a parking structure is probably the quickest way to ensure that you’ll be stalked, shanked, and moaning softly in a pool of your own sticky blood as it forms an intriguing Rorschach blot around your body.

So I was very surprised to be suddenly aware of---no, even more, aggressively wary of---the outside world after a recent surgery. I’m not sure if this happens to others, but there’s something about having open wounds on your body that just overrides any innate sense of comfort or trust in the outside world. Our sweet cat Chelsea came into my room to visit as I lay there recuperating with a “cough pillow” covering my bruised belly, and when she eyed the bed, gauging how much power she’d need to expend in her jump, I shrieked and bounced a rolled-up magazine off her head. I was instantly embarrassed and felt immediately sorry that I’d reacted so harshly as I watched her scuttle for the door in a sulking crouch. And yet, well, I felt fully justified.

So I had been lying around in bed for three days when I finally felt a certain panic, thinking that if I didn’t get the hell OUT of the house, I’d be stuck there forever, one of those crazy ladies whose interaction with the outside world is limited to whatever can be seen through two extended fingers inserted between the slats of the closed wooden blinds.

I decided to bend myself into a painful knot and get behind the wheel of my car. As a movement toward personal evolution goes, big mistake.

I hate perpetuating any stereotype, especially one as unkind as the portrayal of older folks as slow, maniacally cautious drivers, but with surgery, I was suddenly thrust into a world where it made absolute and perfect sense to watch out for the other guy, and I mean really really watch him. I came to a four-way stop and, when it was my turn to proceed, the driver on my left started to inch forward into the intersection. My eyebrows dropped into prehistoric cave-dweller unibrow fashion, and I had growled out a “Don’t even think about it, Motherfucker!” before I had a chance to blink. My fingers were tightened like monkey paws around the steering wheel, and in spite of feeling a little light-headed from this first excursion, I knew with a strange certainty that I could have torn that poor man’s head from his shoulders if I had been further piqued. My power came from something primeval, a savage reaction to a perceived threat of bodily harm.

I shocked myself. The language! The ferocity!

And as result of these adventures out and about in the world after surgery, I think I’m a much more compassionate individual behind the wheel. It’s been an entire week now, and although I wouldn’t say that my body is anywhere near being back to its “normal” self, I will say that I’ve gotten over that initial trauma to the system that sent my protective instincts into red alert. And now, as I wait for the driver ahead of me to finally, finally react to that green light that has been green now for what seems like an hour, I’m not angry. I’m not even too impatient. I am sitting there and assuming that it’s just the natural caution of a person who’s most likely trying to protect their vulnerable guts from leaving their body the hard way. It’s certainly not a bad driver---It’s just someone who has an overzealous urge to stay alive in a potentially dangerous world.