I came to a pretty shocking conclusion today while sitting in the back of a cop car: I’ve grown a little too accustomed to the sweet life. I’ve indulged, lately...I’ve gotten doughy and lethargic enough to be considered basically inert, and my once fiery temper has completely exploded, creating a heretofore-unapproachable level of fury that has my mouth saying things that are going to get my ass killed; even I’m appalled at what’s coming out of my mouth, and I usually adore everything that I say. Take this morning, for instance: upon figuring out that I was fenced in on all sides by a marathon of some sort, my initial thoughts of, "wow, that’s great; I wish I could run a marathon", were quickly replaced with pangs of uncontrollable anguish at the traffic-cop who was less directing traffic and more stopping anyone in a motor-vehicle from moving. So, after turning off my car, I got out and asked him why. "Why what?" "Why am I not allowed to get to the highway?" "Marathon." "Yes, I see that; what I don’t, or didn’t, see are signs telling me that I should have prepared myself for a half-hour wait, or signs detailing some sort of detour to avoid this ridiculous mess." "Please go back to your car, sir." "When you’ve decided to wave me through, I’ll gladly go back to my car...but as it stands, I see about a hundred runners coming down the road here, and you still haven’t told me about the lack of proper signage." "If you won’t go back to your car, sir, we’ll put you in mine." "Was it a lapse in judgment, the lack of signs? I mean, it’s not like this was some spontaneous 'jog-off' here." "That’s it - get in the car." With an escort, I got into the back of the cruiser under my own power; as I waited for someone to come talk to me, I realized that I was aiming my frustrations in the wrong direction - not in this case, but in general. An older officer arrived to find me deep-breathing in the musky aroma known only to the back-seats of cruisers and taxi-cabs. With a smile, I said: "Surely, there’s a better way to go about this." "You could have stayed in your vehicle." "I don’t mean this, I mean drivers getting pigeonholed into an intersection with a concrete-median down the middle that prevents any kind of u-turn." "The Boxing Day marathon happens every year, using the same route, and you should have thought about that before you left the house." "Y’know what? Streets get closed every year too, but there are signs that say 'do not fucking enter' before you get to a big pothole and then thrown in the back of a cop car. Well, they don’t say that exactly, but you get my point." "Officer Grabel is just doing his job." "Do you find it funny that there is a marathon benefiting the heart & stroke foundation going on around hundreds of cars that are pumping noxious gasses into the air?" "Not particularly, but I see your point." "I’d say I’m sorry about picking on you guys for decisions that aren’t yours, but I’ve served many a burned hamburger in my day and it‘s not I could just grab the cook during the dinner rush to explain himself to the customer...well, I did that once, but it was a special occasion." "I’ll pass on your complaint." I know he was just paying me lip service, and that’s when it hit me: this clown isn’t going to have a coronary over something like this - I, however, am if I keep jumping out of my car and working myself into a lather over inconsequential bullshit. Either way, I was totally zen once I finally made it through...what does that mean?