Highway to Hell

That's what rush hour traffic seems like, doesn't it? I can certainly attest to that. And if driving through rush hour traffic on a busy schedule doesn't sound torturous enough, then think for a moment about driving through rush hour traffic on a busy schedule with a migraine.

I left the student commuter lot at 4:30, assuming that a three-mile drive to the expressway would in no way monopolize my time so much as to keep me from reaching US-23 before 5:00. My twisted, backwoods, rural logic failed me that afternoon. I know very little about city commuting, aside from the common knowledge that rush hour lurks over all unfortunate drivers like a cruel, dark mass, waiting to drive its next victims to the brink of insanity. In my flimsy assumption, I happened to miss a very striking detail that I regret overlooking to this day: cars take up a considerable amount of space, no matter how tightly they pack themselves together, and with that space comes the consumption of my valuable time.

To a slightly delusional young woman with a migraine that felt much like a professional baseball player took to using her head for batting practice, that endless string of brake lights looked like a row of terrifying, red-eyed monsters. I mustered up what strength I could, and I tried in vain to tune out my nagging GPS, which I swear decided to take an attitude with me when it took too long to reach the entrance ramp half a mile away. I feel no shame in saying that I took an attitude right back, and I said some nasty things to my GPS that I'd prefer not to repeat. Rest assured, my poor GPS did not stand alone as the target of my very vocal aggression. I distributed my road rage quite evenly among the infuriating drivers littering the street, littering my street. Why is it my street? My SUV told me that it was.

Quickly losing my patience and already having lost my sanity, I gripped the steering wheel as though a black hole had appeared above the roof of my car. Once I realized that this painful action would not make the car in front of me move any faster, I quickly released my grip and took instead to tapping the brake. I didn't care what I had to do at that point. Any foolish form of entertainment proved enough for me. If nothing else, I sincerely hope that it confounded the driver behind me. I shouldn't have to suffer alone.

One thing above all startled me the most. Everyone in the neighboring intersection thought it wise to turn right on a red signal when an enormous string of cars was waiting to go through the intersection. Which unfortunate fool sat at the front of the green light? Why, I did, of course. Who else but the confused country girl should have to face a mad traffic frenzy in a bustling city? My migraine made this quite a chore. I had absolutely no idea what to do, and I must admit that I couldn't bring myself to move through the intersection. The other drivers didn't care, and as such, they proceeded to blare their horns at me. I could have done the rational thing and gone through the intersection. Instead, I chose what suited my foul attitude at the moment, and I swore like a sailor. After a few seconds of yelling at the top of my lungs, I quickly grew to hate the sound of my voice. The grating racket of a screeching young woman does not mesh well with a pounding headache. I nearly burst into tears, but I stopped myself when the flow of traffic resumed. Once I reached the expressway, I finally found some peace. And it was at that point that I learned never to drive through the city with a migraine again, a painful lesson that I won't soon forget.