Pedestrian

This week I learned that it is impossible to make the universal angry hand gesture, the one-finger salute (you know the one), when you’re wearing mittens.

 It’s not super effective, because you look as if you are waving your giant woolen paw in the air, as if greeting the offender behind the wheel that almost struck you. Sometimes I think these fools actually think I’m waving at them, as if to thank them for nearly running me down. Instead, I get the limited satisfaction of knowing that I at least took a stand. I almost made my point. Also, my hands are warm, so take that, driver with heated steering wheels.

It’s like the old joke: why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side. That’s me. I’m that chicken. All I want to do is cross the road safely. I have somewhere to be, too (I will not accept any other punchlines, so save it).

But, since I’ve had multiple attempts on my life these last few weeks in my little town, while simply crossing the street walking to and from work, I feel justified in my aggressive mitten self-expression. It’s like people don’t know the rules of the road anymore.

I promise I’m a law-abiding pedestrian. I only cross at an intersection when I have the right of way, when the white walking signal appears, and I quicken my pass if that aggressive orange hand starts flashing, telling me to hurry up. So pushy. That sign should also get a mitten gesture. I’m going as fast as I can, okay?

Apparently, it doesn’t matter that I have the right of way. I’ve been very nearly struck by distracted drivers three times in the span of one week, twice in the downtown core, once in a school zone.

People are simply not looking where they’re going. They are so focused on oncoming traffic, or distracted by the phones that they aren’t supposed to be using while operating a motor vehicle, that sometimes they seem genuinely surprised that a real live human is crossing the road. Can’t wait for the bike lanes. Won’t that be terrifying.

I’ve tried making eye contact with the drivers, to make sure they see me. It’s like a game of chicken. I have actually had to turn back at the intersection because the driver didn’t see me and I knew that. She was so bent on squeezing in between oncoming cars, hitting the gas like she had to make the turn quick, that had I stepped out, it would have been bad. She saw me after she made the turn, but of course, she just sped off. She too got my mitten gesture. I hope she felt it.

Trust me, my winter coat is bright and visible, as is the puff of hot air floating out of my mouth as I heave myself up and down the hills to make the 2km feat worthwhile. They see me, alright. Eventually. 

I’m enjoying my walk to and from work. Exercise is good for the heart and mind. It’s self-care. But it shouldn’t be so dangerous.

Perhaps I should put the mittens to better use and make snowballs to whip at the cars who nearly take me down, but my aim is really bad. Ah well, invisible woolen salute it is. 

Honk if you see me. You’ll never know if it’s a wave or a salute you get in return, but I will. 

WriteOut of Her Mind