My first game of "chicken"

I had an unnerving experience on the way to work on Friday. It took me a few days to process this, otherwise I would have blogged about it sooner. Anyway, I was driving east on Burleigh at around 9 a.m. when, about three blocks away, a car driving in the oncoming traffic lane quickly cut into my lane and started driving towards me, head on.

Clearly, the driver was accelerating because the car was moving at an uncomfortably fast pace. My mind started to race, partially in confusion, partially out of fear and partially in delight.

"Holy crap," I thought. "Is this a game of chicken?"

When the car was a little less than a half of a block away, still accelerating, I quickly turned right onto an intersecting street. The car flew past me and turned onto the next street, squealing the tires. My heart was beating faster than normal and I started rubbing my fingers together in this way I reserve for moments of heightened nervousness. (It does absolutely nothing and yet it totally helps.)

A part of me finds this escapade stupid ... but another part finds it kinda awesome. I mean, it was, after all, my very first game of chicken. Playing chicken wasn’t exactly on my "bucket list" of things to do before I die, but as an experience junkie, I appreciate it on that level. And yet another part of me -- probably the mama bear side -- feels freaked out by the possibility that someone could have gotten seriously messed up. I thought about how quickly I turned the corner to avoid the oncoming car, and how easily I could have hit someone crossing the street. It gives me the shudders just thinking about it.

Finally, I wonder who exactly plays a game of chicken at 9 a.m. on a weekday?

Later, I called a friend and told her about my experience. She suggested it was a "sign." That the car moving towards me was a "wake up call" and that, clearly, I need to face something that I am unwilling to face. I understand this esoteric way of thinking, but I don’t think it "means" anything unless I assign meaning to it. Which I might ... or I might not.

Another way of thinking about it is that some idiots were simply driving like dumb asses and possibly having the time of their lives.

This topic about whether life events always "mean something more" or not became the topic of conversation all weekend long. One friend said, "You almost got smushed. There’s nothing more to it than that." Another said, "Maybe you’re on the wrong path." At least no one brought God into it. Bawk.