I don’t like to point fingers, but rest assured, it was me who gave my neighbor the finger.
Ava was buckled safe in her booster, blissfully playing with a hand-held fan that with the push of a lever also happens to—voila!—spray you with water. Something that can blow air and water into the face is the definition of heaven to her, especially when used on anybody unsuspecting.
Per our normal drill, we were late. Probably because my daughter insisted on gathering and bringing this hand-held fan along with seventeen stuffed animals, various containers of slime, and random kitchen utensils from our home to her grammy’s for the day. We waited to turn right at a red light marking one of our neighborhood’s two exits. It’s an odd, poorly engineered intersection where you can turn right and proceed straight onto a thoroughfare or turn right, then hang an immediate left onto a somewhat less traveled street.
I find it more than a tad intimidating to step outside of my comfort zone, but when it comes to driving, I will veer toward the road less traveled. Plus, this street has fewer traffic signals. Its only downside is the funky left of death you’re forced to make in order to reap its obvious advantages.
Did I mention this same signal also has a “no turn on red” cycle?
All of this information probably adds up to the majority of you glazing over like canned ham by now, but for me, it almost always equals waiting for green to go right. Keep in mind, there’s no law stating you MUST turn right on red. From what I’ve gleaned, turning right on red was established for energy conservation, but I’m guessing most view it as common courtesy. Basic human decency. Like covering your mouth when you cough or not trimming your toenails with your teeth. It’s inconsiderate to hold up traffic, forcing people to idle for longer than, say, twenty seconds? Thirty? Sixty?
Forty(ish) seconds. I’d estimate that’s how long we sat waiting, and about the time the horn blared (not beeped). In my rearview I observed a woman behind me waving her hands in the air like she most definitely cared.
Instead of option A—taking the higher, albeit passive-aggressive road of ignoring her and proceeding when the light damn well turned green—I leapt for option B—doing my best indignant runway pivot, punctuated with my middle finger and a mumbled “stupid bitch.” Stupid wasn’t fair.
I discuss word choices quite often with Ava. Stupid and hate top the list of words I’ve repeatedly told her aren’t good choices. Bitch, on the other hand… I’ve perhaps mentioned “bitch” isn’t something we should call anybody.
And the aforementioned finger?
Somewhere between five and six, Ava asked what extending one’s middle finger meant. I recall it being another car ride. Does God control the weather? Why do people fart? Who is my real mother? What is yacht rock? What are cemeteries? What are farts? When will you and Daddy die? Why can’t I use regular shampoo? Why, why, why, why, whywhywhywhywhy? This is where life’s big important questions just seem to come up.
I do my part to provide her with honest answers, but that doesn’t mean I don’t ramble or grasp for something/anything resembling the “right words.” Inarticulate isn’t a foreign concept to me, particularly with respect to childrearing. Needless to say, Ava understands the intended meaning of the gesture I gifted my neighbor.
After I both symbolically and overtly said “fuck you” to this woman behind me, I turned right. On red. (Boom, the sweet smell of acquiescence!) I drove to the next light on that thoroughfare I prefer not traveling and coasted to another quick stop in the left turn lane. Lovers Lane. (No irony there.) Betty Horn Blaster pulled up in the lane beside us, her journey leading her in a different direction. (Phew.) Fifteen(ish) seconds later I summoned the courage to side-eye her, and that’s when I realized with eighty-five to ninety percent certainty she not only lived in my neighborhood, but I had also spoken with her on several occasions, usually on my walks or jogs with Charlotte. (Charlotte is our dog. I wouldn’t flip her off if she squatted and pooped in my cereal [this has yet to happen].)
I’d like to divulge that I didn’t drive the neighborhood at least three times for no other reason than to verify this was, in fact, said neighbor.
For fuck’s sakes, there was no doubt. Wow, I mused, I wouldn’t have pegged her to be such an aggressive driver or impatient person. I wonder if she would’ve pegged me to be the kind of middle-aged mom who would react to a horn honking with a loud and proud middle finger, with her about-to-be first grader in the backseat as a star witness.
The green arrow summoned us left. I sighed and apologized to Ava, explaining I shouldn’t have reacted that way, that essentially when “they" go low, “we” should go high. (Shout out to Michelle!) When I finally had the opportunity to regale my husband with Fingergate, I apologized to our six-year-old daughter a second time. (Teaching moment!) She shrugged and responded, “Well, you didn’t do it to me.”
Oh, snap. Damn kids these days for their acute and astute observations.
Forgiveness normally flows with relative ease for me, I’m not a holder of grudges, and the older I get, the more I seem to miraculously have the capacity to let shit go. That said, during the last several weeks life’s everyday irritations have felt more palpable and I’ve struggled to put my finger (middle or otherwise) on the root cause of this lingering cloud of pettiness.
Am I perimenopausal? Is it because my husband doesn’t shut cupboards or drawers, or my kid refuses to pick up her shoes? What about my running schedule? I decided to break from a formal training program this summer and have been yogging unstructured for “routine maintenance.” Do I need to run greater and greater distances with friends and acquaintances and total strangers in spandex to sweat out my rage? I don’t meditate. Should I be getting my om on? Could it be Donald Trump’s policies, combover, tweets, mannerisms, voice, budding friendship with Kanye, absent moral character, MAGA hats (in red or white)? Have I been eating too much spinach? Have I been drinking too little gin? Have I been spending too little time alone? Reading too much into headlines or lack of likes on social media? Not writing enough or writing enough of the stuff that fulfills me? Was it all those bags of Doritos I drained back in July? Was it all those hours I binge-watched shark week?
What is The Universe and/or Tom Cruise trying to convey? Should I simply surrender and embrace the Megalodon Bitch within?
It’s been over a week and I still don’t have a clue.
What I do know is this: I haven’t seen my neighbor since that fateful Thursday morning, but when I next lay eyes on her, I’ll be ready. I will trot over, raise my daughter’s stupid hand-held fan, and give my fellow suburbanite a gentle breeze with a fine mist.
Or maybe I’ll take a deep breath and say I’m sorry.
