I realized my car’s horn was broken as I leaned heavily on it to signal to the driver in front of me that only a complete idiot would not be taking the left on the green arrow.
Silence.
After that, it took a while to get the car into the repair shop. A time of quiet, at least from me.
Others blare their horns at me, too. I’m incredibly wussy about left hand turns. (I know two people who got hit that way). I dither, I hesitate. People honk me.
You think I’d spare others the humiliation, but no. I can dish it out, but I can’t take it.
I do know you are supposed to only honk to signal danger. But that is not the world I live in.
Recently I’ve been noticing my inhibition about sharing good things in my life–success, happiness. I don’t exactly hide it, but I’m cautious. My social world runs more on complaining than kvelling. I’m realizing I need to show more gratitude.
Without my horn, I was worried I wouldn’t have it to warn of road dangers. Turns out, self-observation tells me I only use it rudely.
It should be fixed this afternoon. Honk honk.
Miriam's Well: Poetry, Land Art, and Beyond 