If I had a dollar for every time that I’ve gone white-knuckled while stopping short on the Southern State Parkway in the summer on Long Island, I could finally pay for my car insurance.
If you’re like me, you’re always running late. Somehow, minutes never fail to turn into hours, and if you don’t get dressed and ready in five minutes, your boss is going to scream at you for the third time that week.
The stakes are clearly high. Before you even get into the car, the beads of stress-sweat are already dripping down your neck and your heartbeat feels like it’s in your ears. I can only imagine that this is what professional football players feel on Super Bowl Sunday.
Once in the car, the real game begins. Offense is key in this game; strong defenders, who happen to look a lot like old women driving tan Toyota Corollas, are trying to cut off your fast break and slow down movement.
Tons of other obstacles stand in the way between you and the Vince Lombardi Trophy- equivalent of getting to work on time. The hungover gas station attendant who walks excruciatingly slowly to your car, the traffic light on Jericho Turnpike that seems to stay red for minutes at a time, the other morons that are running late to work and are also driving as if they’re racing against a clock.
Driving on Long Island is competitive, anger-inducing, and requires immense skill that can only come from years of practice. If this isn’t considered a sport but chess is, logic clearly doesn’t exist and has never existed.
