Road rage. Or maybe road irritability.

On Saturdays, I bring Nicholas to Heartland so his grandma can take him to the kids' church. He likes it a lot and looks forward to it. When we leave, we have to be directed by orange-vested volunteers because Heartland is such a megachurch that moving parishioners in and out is a complicated business. They insure quick movement at one exit by posting signs saying "right turn onto Perryville only" because it takes forever to turn left across four perenially congested (and uncontrolled) lanes. So today I go that way and angle over to the right side of street and stop to check oncoming traffic. There's plenty.
All of the sudden, a guy in one of those luxury SUV pulls up on my left. Now all I can see is the front end of his Land Crusher. I shake my head. I'm miffed. There's at least three signs requesting us to turn right. The line behind me is five cars deep, but none of us can turn until Mr. The-Rules-Don't-Apply-To-Me gets his glorified school bus out of the way. I'm seething. I sit back and wait. And wait some more. Finally, El Capitan launches his vessel out into the sea of traffic, sailing halfway out, into the median lane so he can wait for an opening on the other side.
I wait for my opening and go. As I'm driving off, I realize that the entire episode, the waiting, the anger, the head-shaking, etc., must have taken 30 seconds. Thirty friggin' seconds! I'm so impatient and resentful that I can't give half a minute to an inconsiderate driver without getting bent? And so, even if he's a dweeb, I realized I'm the one with the problem.
Here's what James said about it in his ancient letter to the Jewish Diaspora:
"Let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger; for the anger of man does not produce the righteousness that God requires."
No, it doesn't.