In those days, getting behind some oldster driving the 25-mile-per-hour posted speed limit on Broadway (for instance) would cause my blood pressure to jump into hyperspace. “We’re having a ‘slow’ contest,” I would exclaim sarcastically, “and that guy is winning!”
My attitude then was the old fellow was clueless and didn’t realize there was someone behind him he was torturing. Now that I am that oldster, it occurs to me that may not have been the case. He may have been like I am now, which is to say similar to a newly self-righteous former smoker who broke the habit and can’t understand why anyone still does it.
If so, it is for spite, out of the sheer delight of knowing I’m causing pain for some impatient and grimacing young whippersnapper in my rearview mirror whose bumper is so close to mine a fat gnat couldn’t squeeze through.
In such instances, I now exclaim, “We’re having a slow contest, and I’m winning!”
This, of course, opens me up to name-calling, the only appropriate one of which is “Wimpy.”