We all have our path of most resistance when we are running late.
For some, it is an eight-lane freeway, longing for eight more, funneling thousands of spiraling people towards the same exit ramp. For others, it’s the spacious 25 mph section, the speed “hills” within a parking lot, or the annoyingly relaxed pedestrian strolling across the street at the worst possible time. Or maybe it is jumping onto a train as the doors are closing, preparing for a track-star sprint upon arrival at the final destination.
My route is littered with traffic lights every half mile, perfectly mistimed to create a direct path towards insanity. I often daydream of sitting down with the south Denver traffic department to present my brilliant plan of traffic light sensors, seemingly utilized in every city except ours.
I often convince myself that the traffic lights are the problem behind my frantic, swearing-under-my-breath, daily race to my destination. But ironically, the maddening traffic lights are incredibly consistent and predictable. Almost as if I could plan accordingly.
