Tis the season to make promises to yourself and others, but you don’t really tell the others because that just means you have to follow through.  Not me!  I’m making my resolutions public (aren’t you glad) so that y’all can hold me accountable (not sure how, but work with me).  Along with my R-S-T-L-Ns and Es of New Year’s resolutions (e.g. flossing, pushups/situps, eating healthier, donating more, less scratching myself, etc.) I’m going to accomplish the following.

NO MORE ( or much less) ROAD RAGE
The concept of road rage is universal…even in places that don’t have roads (just ask Doc Brown).  It’s a phenomenon that I have experienced and it amazes me to what degree I’m affected.  It exists at varying levels, and herein I’ll describe MY versions of “Low-Level Road Rage” and “White-Hot, Baby-Punching Road Rage.”

Low-Level Road Rage
In this scenario I witness another driver who is able to cut in front of me in line or pull-off a similar “skip-to-the-front” maneuver.  Such an event typically results in mild obscenities, a tighter grip on the steering wheel, and a possible iPod shuffle to 2Pac’s “Hit ‘Em Up.” The only real reasons I get mad are because I wish I had either thought of such a brilliant, time-saving tactic or that I had followed through on it.

For the latter, I supposed I just need to be more callous.  I’m not certain why my conscience works overtime while I’m in the car, but I need to dispose of the notion that a barrage of lights, sirens and horns will flood the air if I take advantage of a faster lane for 100 yards, slip into a neglected slot between cars, drive on the shoulder…

Really, if they didn’t want me driving there, why is it paved?  Consider it “maximizing the resources our tax dollars paid for.”

White-Hot, Baby-Punching Road Rage
I’m a pretty chill guy.  I maintain low-levels of excitement for the most part and pride myself on being a level-headed mediator…
BUT I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL SLIT YOUR THROAT IF YOUR BLINKERLESS SUV CAREENS ACROSS FIVE LANES OF TRAFFIC, CUTS IN FRONT OF ME AT A RANGE CLOSE ENOUGH TO IDENTIFY YOUR BRAND OF STEREO, AND THROUGH “NO-MAN’S LAND” OF THE OFF-RAMP YOU ALMOST MISSED BECAUSE YOU WERE CHATTING ON YOUR CELL PHONE, COMPLAINING HOW “somebody at work farted in my cubicle and it just hung in the air and lingered and made my yogurt taste funny.”

This set of circumstances results in the following symptoms:  my body temperature rises one degree per second for about 28 seconds, transforming my blood into molten lava; my internal organs rise two inches; predatory instincts derived from cavemen hunting wooly mammoths course through my body.

YOU MUST DIE.

Assuming I opt out of following you to the off-ramp, tailgating you at a measurement normally made by calipers, I will spurt non-flattering statements about you, your car, your family (deceased or otherwise), and pets for roughly 3 minutes before resuming normal brain function.  At this time I usually “come to.”  However, I am unable to recall any traffic-related details from the previous 9 miles that I’ve apparently traversed at an average speed of 180 mph.

The bottom line is that even though I want YOU to die, I don’t want to go with you.  Therefore, I should really find a way to channel that energy into something positive and less homicidal.  Perhaps knitting, I hear that’s pretty hip(ster).  Maybe FarmVille, maybe not.

No more road rage.  It’s unhealthy for me…and YOU are still too busy talking about farts to even realize I’m hunting you down.