Who I Let In

In middle age I have come to realize who I will move from and who I will not, who I let in and who I keep out, who I will accommodate and who I will deny.

I am not the doormat who would cower and scurry before the sight of an esteemed hood ornament in the rear view mirror, especially since I have lived long enough to know the real demons to fear will not ram our bumpers. Now I know I can maintain my lane and nothing so terrible will happen, at least nothing that will not fall immediately from memory’s grasp.

Now I move when they hang behind me like someone who does not want to interrupt a conversation. If they are polite, I will be polite. But for those who scream and blink down the highway, like they expect the Red Sea to part before them because their truck or sports car or SUV is so badass that it would be a crime to restrict it to 80 mph, I cannot be moved. At least, not until my stubbornness gives way when you try to run me off the road.

Til then, you’ll just have to sit behind me and fume, buddy. My gesture when you pass my 75 might seem harsh to you, and I am not proud of it, but you deserve it for driving like a jackass.