So, we’re in Florida, visiting with family. This particular city is a retirement Mecca, complete with drivers who have antique licenses, and homes that belong to the rich and famous. The rich and famous think twenty-five miles an hour is a generous speed limit on major roadways. The rich and famous also have antique driver licenses.
And since money means power, and power listens to money, the powerful installed speed bumps the size of New Jersey on every road I like to use. This does not make for a happy blogger.
We hit one of those bumps this morning at twenty-six miles an hour in our four wheel drive, and bruised both my kidneys.
“I don’t know why they call those ‘traffic calming devices’? I’m not calm—now I’m irritated.”
“You’re not the traffic,” Rob said. “They calm traffic.”
“I am, too, the traffic,” I protested.
“No,” he said, “you’re the passenger.”
“Well, I’m in the car which is moving; therefore, I am the traffic,” I told him.
“No, the cars are the traffic,” he argued.
“Only because people inside the cars are driving them,” I retorted. “If people are in the car, causing traffic, the people are the traffic.”
“Trust me,” he maintained, “you’re not the traffic.”
“Well, I’m not calm either. So those bumps don’t do what they’re supposed to do at all.”
“In a perfect world they would,” he muttered.
I may not understand street signs, but sarcasm is my native tongue. So I stuck it out at the driver sitting next to me.
And then I felt calm.
Whatd’ya know—those devices do work.