IF ONLY . . .

So all my life I considered myself a mellow, easy going person― the glass is not only half full, it’s overflowing kind of person. Nothing much rattled me and I could usually find the silver lining in any situation. Calm, caring and compassionate. That was me.

But as I reflect back over the years, I have come to the unpleasant conclusion that there was always something sinister lurking just beneath the surface. My exterior projection of cheerful contentment was a ruse designed by some devious inner imp to fool myself into thinking I was someone I wasn’t. Someone I desperately wanted to be. Someone, well, calm and caring and compassionate.

I lived in a bubble where I was always pleasant, friendly, and, of course, nice. That was me to a T―nice. I wouldn’t hurt a hair on a bug’s head. You could count on me to be uplifting and positive. If you were down in the dumps, I’d spray some air freshener and clean everything up till it sparkled.

Now that I’m old(er) I realize I was living in a bubble. A bubble of self-delusion and denial. A bubble created not for my protection but for the protection of the people and the world around me. A bubble to keep the beast contained. But as the years melted away so has the bubble and I have come face to face with my true self: a crabby, cranky, curmudgeony, not very nice person.

What finally broke the spell and released the demon from its cage? Drivers, that’s what. Those shadowy villains that have infected vehicular conveyances since the dawn of man. It never crossed my mind that sweet little ‘ole me could be harboring the rage the road brings out of the seemingly innocuous.

Here are a few of my choicest rants all screamed from inside the comfort and anonymity of my lime green VW Beetle. I am almost ashamed of these vicious and abusive tirades that erupted out of me. Almost. Because let’s face, these scoundrels deserved it. . .

• “That’s the only shade it comes in!” to the deadbeats lounging in gas guzzlers when the stoplight turns green.
• “The gas pedal is the one on the right!” to every Tom, Dick and Harriet ambling down the ACCELERATION ramp to the freeway.
• “Turn on your flippin’ blinker! I’m not psychic!” to the yahoos changing lanes, changing directions, changing their freaking minds!

Sometimes I fantasize I’m an agent of vigilante justice sworn to uphold the rules of the road, which no one but me seems able to follow. I imagine a giant bullhorn strapped to the top of my car so I can blast these nere-do-wells into obedience. Just once, I’d like to give these destroyers of the very fabric of the universe a piece of my mind! Okay, maybe just a good finger-wagging as I really can’t afford to lose any more gray matter but you get my drift.

Now that I’ve officially come out of the closet and embraced my inner Mr. Wilson, I really think I could tell off these sorry excuses for civilized beings. I think I could rebuke them with my cutting wit without experiencing even one guilty twang. I feel the fury rising up from my guts and I know it would be fabulously freeing to finally say to these cretins of humanity what needs saying. I don’t care what whirlwind the words of truth might wreak. I know in my heart of hearts I really could do it!

And I would . . . if I wasn’t so calm, caring, compassionate and @#$%^!*& nice. . .