Anyway, one of the behaviors I've seen the most progress with is my road rage. For instance, before I had children, any leisurely drive typically consisted of roughly five slamming of the horns, four riding of the asses, three cutting of the offs, two flailing of the arms, one flipping of the bird, and a partridge in the fucking front grill.
Now, just the other day, I was on my way to pick up Plus One from preschool. It was about 11:15am, and I had T9 strapped in the back while I tried to teach him how to cry to The Little Drummer Boy, which played on the radio. We were driving along this one particular stretch of road where the speed limit is precisely 40 mph. Though, I should say, it IS one of those roads where you just want to drive 60 for some reason, whether it's the windy turns, the country setting, or that ONE-LANE TUNNEL THAT'S UP AHEAD OHMYGOD HEAD-ON COLLISION. Oh, and there's the occasional prancing deer as well. It even says so on the signs.
Anyway, we're sniffling to Christmas songs in unison when a maroon sedan suddenly creeps up on my ass. And remains parked on my ass for miles. (Or like, A mile. I'm not good with spacial estimations.) Now, I can see this woman in my rear-view mirror and she is HELLA pissed that I am going 44 mph. H-E-L-L-A. But, while I could feel the rage boiling into my chest, I labored to take a deep breath and calm the fuck down. Why should I take her ridiculous behavior personally, after all? She will figure it out! You're OK! I'm OK! We're all gonna be OK!
Well, after a million more miles, OR SOMETHING, she began gesticulating wildly and it became immensely difficult not to drive while looking solely in the rear view mirror to watch the spectacle. And get enraged. So, whereas my former self would have shifted into second gear abruptly, forcing her to slam on her breaks and possibly rear end me BUT WHO CARES BECAUSE I GOTCHYA BITCH! HAHAHAHAHA!, I took another (labored) deep breath and decided to pull off to the side so that she could pass me. Who knows! Maybe she was late for work? Someone dying in the hospital? A bad case of the runs? I drove a bit further until there was a safe place to pull over, and no sooner did I put on my blinker did she floor it and lay on her horn. I smiled as she sped past.
As I flipped her the bird.
(Baby steps, remember?)
(And for what it's worth, I caught up to her at a stop sign where I saw her squeal into the Stewart's parking lot. Sometimes running out of milk can be urgent, you know?)