Traffic Martyrs & Sliders

November 16, 2012, 1:00 am
Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting | Tags: cars, driving, humor, Marriage, southern, tailgates, traffic martyrs

You’ve all seen them as you’re stuck in a hideous line of traffic going from four lanes to two, or as 20,000 people are trying to leave a stadium at the same time. Either way, somebody farther up is LETTING PEOPLE IN. That person is a Traffic Martyr.

Sacrificing your spot in line for a Slider (a.k.a. the I’m-going-to-try-and-get-over-even-though-I-saw-the-line-backing-up-a-mile-ago-guy) not only rewards rude driving, it has historically caused an immeasurable and unrecorded rise in health care costs. The lemmings behind the Traffic Martyr have to up their Lipitor dosage, or risk having their hearts explode as their blood pressure escalates faster than the General Patraeus sex scandal.

If you are, or ever have been, a Traffic Martyr, maybe you’re one of those genuinely nice people who believe in letting Sliders in once a day. I’ll bet you even do it with a smile and a wave. And you probably believe in unicorns.

But I doubt you’re really that nice, down deep inside. Letting Sliders in your lane probably made you feel good, maybe a little self-righteous, and definitely a little superior. After all, you were the nice one. I’ve been there myself. And in the right situation, Traffic Martyrs can be useful, like when they slow the pace down enough to let you safely whack your teenager with a “punch-buggy-no-punch-back” hit while driving with your knees.

But if there’s one thing people hate more than Traffic Martyrs, it ‘s Sliders.

When Hubby encounters a Slider attempting to invade his driving space, he usually creeps up until he’s one inch behind the car in front, blocking the Slider. It’s as effective as a girl saying “let’s be friends.” Hubby’s move usually results in lots of honking and bird-flipping. But recently, in a rare act of being a Slider, Hubby ran into the ultimate Slider Hater.

Literally.

At the horse races last week (the same ones where the Irish news interviewed me), Hubby was trying to leave the infield with 10,000 other wind-burned, inebriated tailgaters. Having thoughtfully parked on the end of the aisle, facing out, he was quickly ready to merge into the line of stop-and-go traffic. One driver, however, was very upset that Hubby was going to be allowed to join the vehicular Conga line so soon. But instead of quietly cursing the Traffic Martyrs and like most people, Slider Hater called out to Hubby:

“You can’t just get in line! I’ve been waiting here for a half-hour.”

Hubby, having already gotten permission from the Traffic Martyrs around him, answered in typical Slider fashion, “Seriously, you’re not going to let me in? We’re all just trying to get out of here.”

Slider Hater: “Hey Buddy, I’ve got my kids in the car back here. Now you can do the right thing and let me go first, or you can do the wrong thing.”

Now, to be fair, Hubby had gotten permission from all the other cars around him,and Slider Hater had probably been sitting there for a while. Tempers were flaring. “It’s a rental,” Hubby yelled back. Daughter #1 cringed.

Hubby then attempted to merge. Misjudging the width of the rental car, Hubby took out the front of Slider Hater.

Yep, that was fender-bender #3 for our family in nine days.

Karma….freakin’ chipmunk.

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I am a proud slider. The reason the lane is there is so we can use it. Just because the sign says, “this lane ends in 15,000 feet, it doesn’t mean you are no longer allowed to use it. Just because the lemmings all coagulate over in that one right hand lane, it does not mean we all have to stupid and leave a perfectly good lane empty. Amen.

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Comment by Bruce November 16, 2012 @ 3:42 am

Clearly you are prepping your Yankee self for the drive up to NY & NJ to help with the aftermath of Sandy, and for that I salute you. Let the “Jersey slashing” begin! (That’s what my kids call crossing five lanes of traffic on the turnpike) Best of luck, and hope you can do some good.

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Comment by libbyhall November 16, 2012 @ 1:50 pm