The Middle Time

The people on the road just do not understand the need to drive a little faster, to brake a little less, and, generally, to get out of my way. Frustration and resentment are not too far under my skin after 30-odd hours of wakefulness and decision making.

I barrel around a circular on-ramp that straightens out and immediately splits into 3 highways. I curse the confusing design as I drive by a single-file line of traffic to my right. Sheep, I think, they are all sheep, lining up good and early to keep me from getting home, getting to bed. I cut into the line just before the exit—a New York move that I never performed until moving to Minnesota. Everyone else is coming home from a day's work—I've got 2 days under my belt, doesn't that give me some kind of priority? Well, it should. …