… and I’m thinking: I hate this.

I hate all this traffic and construction and all these cranky people and how I’m one of them—and where is everybody going anyway, doesn’t anyone work where they live??—then I exit onto Bayview and I’m thinking why doesn’t the guy ahead of me turn already—for god’s sake turn, buddy!! and excuse me, what the ????—they’ve closed a lane even though it’s technically still rush hour?? On a main street?

I hate them. Whoever them are.

It’s because of them that all of us—the idiots who don’t know how to drive, and me (because of course I do)—are stuck like rats in a… a something that’s such a pain in the ass stupid I can’t even define it.

Oh great. Now some yutz  cuts me off and nobody’s letting me merge—moron!   I do the international what—are you nuts? combo–move with my hands and eyes. 

I turn off the radio because it’s too pleasant, all that brilliant CBC morning banter gets in the way of being fully tense and angry. I shout in my hermetically sealed container, make what I believe to be rude gestures but in my supreme annoyance with all things other drivers and stupid summer roadwords I’m momentarily confused about which finger is the rude one and I’m pretty sure I’ve just flashed my pinkie.

Perfect, now we’re not moving and the guy I flashed is staring at me.

I call where I’m going even though it’s against the law (and yes I know this is wrong and I’m consumed with guilt and shame but—please—who am I going to crash into at zero kms an hour??) and say I’m going to be god only knows how late and the relaxed voice at the other end says oh that’s okay, don’t worry—and this makes me nuts. Easy for you to say Ms. Sitting in an Air-Conditioned Office Where You’re Already Supposed to Be—try inching, inching along Bayview Avenue sometime, try being caught in a cesspool of moronic city/street/roadwork planning for a few dozen years or however long I’ve been out here this morning. Yeah, sure, relax. Thanks. Why didn’t I think of that?

So inch inch inch we go until finally, finally, the other lane opens up and things are normal—which isn’t great, merely better— then, at last, I land at my destination, a major achievement—all I need is to park but the parking lot is full and by some weird bad miracle the very same dorks that were on the road, or their nearest kin, are now circling the lot and it takes forever—by which I mean a good twenty minutes—and we’re inch inch inching around and waiting to see if that guy, or that couple, is coming or going and we collectively mutter under our breath when it’s obvious they’re coming and while some of us get spots, others of us inch down down to various levels until we’re super subterranean and I’m one of them and when I finally at gd last park, I head for the stairs and I see this: 

And my huff mellows just a titch.

And I get closer.

So I stop and watch these gorgeous gormless faces just sitting and waiting and I think: what patience, what peace.  Happily whiling away the time til mum returns. Possibly even humming (I’m sure I hear them humming). Fully engaged in the moment. Hmm, hmm, hmm.

What is the problem? they appear to say when I stare up at them with my wild, frazzled, flushed, just-stuck-a-fork-in-a-live-socket look.

You can almost see them smile and blink hello.

And I think: what an idiot I am. 

This is what it’s all about.

And just like that—presto magic—my return drive is entirely different.