Pink Slips

I pride myself on being a reasonably intelligent person. I'm fairly logical (although my husband would dispute that, basing his decision on my fondness for Starbucks and shoes and photography equipment) and usually considerate. I open doors for people, and try to be pleasant and kind.

But sometimes, when I least expect it, my baser instincts creep in and clock my nice self in the head, taking over and running rampant, and giggling maniacally at the same time.

This happened on the way to work today.

I was in the car on the way in, listening to music and planning my day in my head. My morning commute, all 12 minutes of it, is relatively uneventful and calm. Sometimes I feed my NPR addiction, sometimes I channel surf for good tunes. Always I just roll right along and don't really even pay attention to the other cars around me (except, of course, to avoid hitting them).

Today, at the light at Kirkwood Middle School on Manchester, my inner demons came out. They, and I, saw that there was construction ahead in the right lane. I could see the big orange diamond-shaped signs that said "Right Lane Closed" and the truck with the flashing arrows directing people into the left lane. I was already in the left lane, so I had nothing to worry about. Except the Beemer in the right lane, next to me. Middle-aged dude, also noticing the sign, glancing at my mom-mobile and, I swear, smirking. Smirking.

I do not respond well to smirking.

Now, I know my limitations. I know that my car, while not exactly dilapidated, is rather a sight to behold most days. It's usually got a fine layer of dust all over it, some leaves tucked in the wipers, and some decorative tar near the rear wheels. At 8+ years old, it's seen its fair share of dings, dents, scratches and scrapes. And, at the very heart of it, it is a four-door sedan with a babyseat strapped in the back. Not exactly something that strikes fear in the hearts of racers.

But my little ZoeMobile and I looked at that 5-series BMW this morning and we both went, "No #&*%ing way."

Light turned green and we both started accelerating. I wasn't going to floor it on the off-chance that the Beemer wasn't going for it, so as not to waste fuel or look like an idiot (although I'm fairly certain the latter had already been achieved, what with the white-knuckled grip I had on the steering wheel, the set of my jaw, and the narrowed eyes that all combined to say, "Bring it on.").

Then the BMW started really moving. Alrighty then, if that's what you want to play.

"Holy Mother of Blessed Acceleration, don't fail me now!"

I'm embarrassed to admit that before I knew it, I had indeed jammed the gas pedal all the way to the floor while breathing, "C'mon. C'mon."

Thankfully it was a rather short hop to the lane closure, which meant that I won.

I like to think it was my incredible driving skills, and the finely honed six-banger of my 1999 Honda Accord sedan. All I'm saying is, if you see a suburban woman driving a "gently used" four-door sedan, don't underestimate her. She just might be out for a little race.