I used to judge slow drivers

now, I'm becoming one

I’ve had a Big Girl job since January 2020, so I’ve been exposed to quite a lot of driving during the peak work-week hours of 7-9am and 5-7pm.

They’re the most dangerous time slots. When Mercedes driven by the stressed share the road with 2008 Toyota Tacomas, who have precarious gardening racks and no imPOrTanT meetings to get to.

It’s an explosive combination.

As a write this, someone on 6th street is laying on their horn. I can guarantee you that they are still behind that same car and will be until 6th opens into two lanes. Or they’ll just awkwardly turn into the same apartment complex. Ah, consequences. Also, for the record—there is almost never a reason to honk your horn. If you have time to honk, whatever happened generally wasn’t that dangerous. If you have time to honk for 10 seconds, well.

Anyways, every morning, there is That One Driver, the man or woman who calmly goes the speed limit and gently sways back and forth within their own lane. Maybe they’re listening to a podcast or a CD they’ve had since 2014. Whatever they’re doing, they’re unbothered by the line of nail-biting, teeth-grinding high-achievers behind them. A lot of people on the road at peak hours in LA have enough horsepower to get around That One Driver. And they often do.

It’s always the same: The bus in the far right lane—God, finally!—makes a stop or cars on the left shift into the turn lane, and the faster driver sees her opening. She pushes her automatic transmission through the seven circles of hell, swings into the newly opened lane, and jerks around unnaturally as she urges her overpowered car beyond its power band and her own skills as a driver.

Her tires squeal. The light turns red. She slams on the brakes.

The rest of us arrive at the line and we all sit there together, one big metallic herd. She inches forward every few seconds. Sure, she’s stuck with us now but she’s at the front, which is e v e r y t h i n g at 7:41am on a Monday.

When the light turns green, she guns it. Some follow suit. The rest of us don’t make the next-next light. And she realizes her gains.

I get second-hand embarrassment just thinking about it.

And not just because it’s so absurdly short-sighted. But because these rushy drivers (and I, in the past) have forgotten the most absurd thing of all.

That most of us are rushing to a parking structure to park our cars, cross a courtyard, catch an elevator (that doesn’t need catching because the building probably isn’t very tall), dash to a desk, plug-in, power-up, and caffeinate—all for a meeting that has a 50/50 chance of being canceled or postponed, and (if neither of those) has a 97% chance of happening again. Next week.

Now, I like my job. I understand it, I can do it, it pays the bills, my coworkers are pleasant people, and I deeply enjoy contributing to a team. But it isn’t worth acting as if—or, worse still, believing that—every person on Olympic Blvd is a villain in my personal legend.

Honestly, rushing to work should be considered an existential surrender. A complete and absolute acceptance of the modern world’s bizarre model, which says that saving 4 minutes is worth what little peace of mind you still have.

So maybe That One Driver isn’t just trying to annoy you—maybe they just haven’t bought into the soulless scheme. Maybe they’ve just decided to be the main character in their own, one, short life.

It’s a thought.

With love,

Aial