2 Crabapples and a Possible Recant for the Man in Tube Socks

Loyal readers may recall my pedestrian-bashing rant a few months back, in which I declared my seething disdain for people who abuse their right to press the walk light.

This post was tagged by Universal Hub, resulting in some very nice people informing me that some people are handicapped and require a walk light. True; however, these kind readers missed the point. I am a HUGE fan of using the walk light for its designed purpose. I am not, conversely, a fan of people using the light to purposely make me want to yell, cry, and then possibly kill myself after swiftly doing away with them.

So, today, I got my case in point. Sort of.

I'm driving home from work, and I enter the No-WEEI zone of Mass Ave, an annoying stretch that runs from the Cambridge line a little ways into East Arlington; this zone gives me only static... and about 15 traffic lights within 400 yds. It is about 7:15 and the game has just started. I would like to listen. Even more, I would like to get home because I would like to see what this spankin' new pitcher looks like, and I am hungry (which makes me mean).

I am stopped at a no-right-on-red red light. Dorky man and petite woman standing on the curb, markedly not together. All lights are red, all cars stopped, but no walk light is lit. The nice lady walks; I applaud in my head. The guy stays. I start to get angry. All the lights stay red (nice lady is fully across). Guy is pressing the walk light button like he really-really wants the Funyons outta the snack machine and he thinks by stabbing the button they will fall down. I would prefer that he stop pressing and begin walking, so that I may go when my light turns and not fear his death.

My windows are down and he is next to me on my passenger's side, so in the most immature, passive-aggressive manner possible, I say under my breath, "I hate you"... and then proceed to repeat it at least 23 times. I tap my wheel with my thumb fourteen times... still waiting. It is now clear that the lights may be broken, or at least the walk signal is being an asshole, so after 3-4 more passes of whispered "walk like the lady walked, you fucking toolbox," I say out my window, "Sir, you can go ahead. I think the lights are being weird." He stops from his walklight finger-stabbing, looks at me sidelong, and crosses the street.

It is then I notice this particular toolbox was wearing gym shorts, tube socks, and a plaid shirt. I instantly feel remorse for my anger, for he is very troubled. And then came the musical crescendo and startling revelation, complete with floating gold glitter and perfectly melty brie.

I realized, "This man does not know. He does not know that anyone who is not the natural offspring of Larry Bird and Paul Bunyan should not wear such a combination. And thus, he also does not know that the walk light should not be used to toy with my emotions, cause me permanent mental scarring, and make me want to pull cocoons down from trees and crush them under my heel.

He simply did not know this.

I am a more complete and altruistic woman tonight.
For this, I thank you, Mr.Bird-Bunyan.