For ten minutes, I sat there, the four-year-olds in the back making outraged noises in solidarity with my rising anger.

“We were going to be first, and now we’re going to be last!”

“I’m thirsty!”

“I need the bathroom!”

“It’s not fair what he’s doing!”

And as their ire grew, so did mine. We watched as the man dug through the truck, pulling out packages and scanning them as though he had all the time in the world. Someone far behind me honked. A bus joined our line of irritated cars. I watched the minutes tick by, the packages pile up, and I felt the slow burn of my fury.

How could he do this? There was a spot just ahead! There was a school down the block! It was 8:45 in the morning! Wasn’t someone in the house, receiving all this kitchenware? Hadn’t they thought to clear their driveway for their delivery? How could people be so inconsiderate?

I snapped a picture of the back of the truck, of the license plate, making grand plans to contact the employer about common courtesy. In the back, the chattering girls had decided that the delivery people were mean, the ultimate offense.

Finally, finally, the truck finished up… and pulled into that empty spot. I flew around the corner to the carpool line, letting the girls out and wishing them a super-duper day, despite the delay.

A moment later, the car in front of me began to pull out. As she reversed, I felt a slight bump. She tapped my car. The woman stopped and stepped out of her car, her eyes wide and her expression apologetic.

“Did I—?” she mouthed to me, pointing at her car.

“Don’t worry about it.” I waved her off. It was just a bump. And I drove off, still full of righteous indignation against the delivery men.

But a week later, driving my next carpool shift down the thankfully unobstructed road, simmering a bit as I pass the house, I’m suddenly struck by the difference in my reaction. In one case, there had been no material harm at all, but I’d been so angry. In the other, the woman had actually bumped into my car, and I hadn’t even felt a flicker of annoyance. Why was I so forgiving of one inconvenience and so furious about the other?

Is it that the woman had been apologetic while the man had just shrugged me off? Is it that the woman and I had been in the same boat, dropping off our kids at carpool, and I’d related better to her situation? Is it that the woman had done minimal damage (my license plate frame is a little bent, but I’ll manage) but the man had taken ten minutes of time that I’ll never get back? Is it that her damage had been accidental and his intentional?

Or is it just about the slow build of anger, the way that the simmer of rage can bring us to irrational fury? I logged a license plate. I took pictures of a truck. I opened the business website to lodge a formal complaint. I wrote this Lifetakes. And in my first draft, written immediately after I’d gotten home that day, I used the real name of the business! It’s like I lost my mind to the rage. Sitting there for ten minutes, without any distraction from my irritation, I let it reach such a crescendo that it took an eternity to settle back down.

Today, I take a breath. I double-check the front of my car. And I delete the pictures and laugh.

I have better things to do.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 920)