The driver cut in front of me, honking his horn while sticking his middle finger out his car window, pointing it in my direction.
“What’s he so mad about?” I remember asking myself.
I had apparently failed to move fast enough when the light for the right-turn lane signaled green.
That wasn’t the first time someone had so visibly disapproved of my driving. I admit I’m not NASCAR driving material. I once had a friend tell me that driving with me was like being a passenger with Mr. Magoo at the wheel.