After a long holiday weekend – a significant portion of which many of us have spent traveling in cars with our families – I like to take a moment and reflect on what huge jerks guys are.
I swear to God, I was ready to hop out of the car this weekend, pull a baseball bat out of the trunk and start beating on any automobile from which I heard a honk. "Yes! There are many cars on the road!" I would scream. "You do not have to alert others of this fact by leaning on your horn! If you wish to communicate, use your cellphone! Or I'll beat you into a grease spot!" Then I would wield my bat chaotically and without mercy.
Of course, this is a completely pretend plan, mainly because we don't keep any sporting equipment in the trunk.
When women are stuck in traffic, we deal with it. We sing along with the radio, we file our nails, we experiment with bisexuality, we balance our checkbooks. (Just kidding about that last one!)
Males, on the other hand, interpret traffic as an affront to their masculinity, a metaphorical castration, a situation that can only be improved by many rude hand gestures and frequent acceleration and subsequent stomping on the brakes.
For example, this guy with whom I recently agreed to spend the rest of my life and I were on the road Monday night, trying to get to a movie theater. There were admittedly a lot of cars out there because Addison's fireworks show had just ended.
"Yuck," I said when we hit the traffic. "Well, we might miss the previews, but it's no big deal."
I turned to look at him and recoiled at the sight of his purple face and the veins bulging out of his neck. His eyes were flaming red and his arms had gotten real hairy. Waves of tension radiated from him and harshed my buzz. Cartoon sweat drops flew from his body and blinded me.
"Honey," I said, wiping my eyes. "It's just traffic." He responded with a weird cross between a growl and a sob.
Frantically, I unrolled the window to get some air and coughed as Eau de Testosterone from thousands of angry male drivers filled the air. I looked around and made eye contact with another female trapped in a passenger seat. She scratched at the window and mouthed Help me.
"Look," I said, turning back to my boyfriend (I mean fiance). "Want me to drive?"
Drool ran down his face, and his pupils spun around. "Nope," he said. "I'm fine."
Luckily, the movie theater was next to a drugstore, so when we finally got there I was able to run across the street and get some sedatives.
Not for him. For me. I was the one with the harshed buzz.
When the gender wars start, Jessica will be on the front lines. E-mail her at jburgess@quickdfw.com.
