Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

I don't live or function much during normal hours when most people would, therefore I almost ALWAYS get to avoid rush hour.  (Yay me!).  So the other day when I was on my way up nort' to celebrate with my sister and I got on 35W going north, I was a tad surprised to see the congestion that was already starting on the tar at 3pm.  Granted there is a gaggle of construction going on at the "crosstown" which makes people freak a little more, slow a lot more and even swerve some.  As I started approaching the bottleneck where its two main arteries come together, my heart began to pound.  I started to sweat.  My hands got clammy, my vision blury.  Then it hit me.  This was the very place it happened; the traumatic event a few years ago as I was stuck in this very spot during stop and go traffic. 

I didn't know at the time what was going on.  I could only see out of my peripheral vision that the old beat up Cutless next to me was keeping the same pace as I.  So I sped up a little.  The Olds followed suit.  Sped up more, the jalopy did the same.  Since traffic was fairly thick it wasn't like I could just step on the gas and go, so I just tried to ignore the bastard.  Then I noticed something even more strange.  He had a gazillion feet in front of him allowing him to advance far in front of me and yet he was choosing not to.  It was, at this point, confirmed in my mind's eye that I had an unusual situation going on next door.  And so I turned to look.  I'll forever regret that decision.

My vehicle sits up higher than most. My boyfriend calls it a hermaphodite or a "cruck" cause it doesn't know if it's a truck or car. I call it a crossover, cause that's what they are called. The Cutless rode lower to the road, lower than the normal Oldsmobile for whatever reason. Bald tires? A dead body in the trunk? Who knows, but I could see right into the lap of this man's luxury.  And so it was, he was chokin' the chicken.  Rubbin' one off!  All while driving and staring at me!  ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?  Now the anxiety turned to rage.  My face got flushed, my breathing got shallow and I felt my heart jump out of my chest to slap that asshole!  I felt so violated!  ROAD RAPED!  Then, after the brief viewing of the up and down motion of his clutched knuckles, I looked him in the eye.  I can't tell you how creepy the creep was, but it stopped me in my tracks.  Literally.  I didn't care that there were miles of vehicles behind me.  I was NOT moving forward so as to be this preditor's daily flavor any longer.  I don't recall exactly because I blacked out after that, but I think he stopped for a minute as well, and then laid on the gas and sped off, possibly a result of an orgasmic jetstream.

Okay, I didn't exactly black out.  I'm not one hundred percent prude afterall.  I was just so mortified and fascinated at the same time.  I told EVERYONE about it.  I had to.  I just had no clue something as such could happen.  Ignorance, I figure.  Well, to my elated surprise, I found out through telling my story that I am not alone!  There were several others who had been beaten off to under the same exact circumstances.  "Oh ya, that happened to me about 10 years ago" or "I remember when I was in highschool and some guy..."  WHAT?  You mean to tell me that this is like a rites of passage and it was just now happening to me?  Just like that I became offended.  Hurt.  I felt like a loser. Ugly. Pitiful. No one on the road wanted me.  I can't believe it had happened to so many of my friends years ago and now, in my thirties I was finally "hand picked" in traffic to lose my rush hour viginity.  UGH.  Disgusting.

I really hope when the city is done tearing up that part of the freeway, that pukes DNA goes with it.  I don't want to remember that every time I'm on that stretch.  I still get the chills when that merge slows up.  It's post traumatic stress at its best.  Flippin' Jack Off.  At least get a different car.  Maybe a Volkswagen next time with a bumber sticker alert that reads "Fuckin' Spewin'" or maybe you should just "Schlang up and drive".  Or get a Semi so there is no chance in hell that you'll be outed.  Or is that.. was that.. the entire motive?  Honestly, I no longer care to guess.

1 comment:

  1. For this exact reason, I just belt my voice to the music in the car and hope to goodness that nothing around me is happening like this!