Traffic Yoga, Performance Theater, and the Art of the Middle Finger

Recently, I witnessed a mild incident of road rage at a four-way stop. Whilst waiting my turn, the

car to my left chose not to wait and pulled out in front of the car directly opposite me. Oops, it

was not her turn. She didn't play the game right. She forgot about the unspoken social contract

that holds first-world civilization together – we must wait, with polite deference, in the queue for

our turn. This rule not only aids traffic flow, but it also permits the world a respite, just for a few

seconds, allowing the universe to set everything back into order. Ah, I must stop, look around

me, and put my neighbor first. It's like traffic yoga – everyone slows down, reorientates, and

breathes. A four-way stop is a gift. 

But when someone breaks this pinky finger promise, when they steal someone else's turn, they're not just disrupting the flow of traffic—they're declaring that they matter more than their

neighbor. They're announcing to the yoga studio that they've transcended the need for communal

patience. It's the asana equivalent of rolling out your mat (or powder blue Prius) in front of

someone who arrived first, with an attitude that says, "My downward dog is more important than

your sun salutation."

The response from the gal whose turn it really was was immediate and smooth. Oh, so smooth.

That middle finger flew into action and found its perfect asana, backed up by a breathwork

session that she projected across the entire studio: "This was not fair! It's not your turn! I was

supposed to go first!" Or.... some such words. I can only assume there was some truly inspired

mantras being chanted. 

What struck me was the theatrical precision of it all. Here was a woman performing her outrage

for an audience that couldn't hear her monologue, couldn't see her facial expressions clearly, and

would, most likely, forget her entirely within minutes. Yet she delivered her performance with

the commitment of a passionate Kundalini instructor, complete with dramatic gestures that may

have been learned during 4th-grade recess. It was performance art at its most raw and

honest—pure emotion made visible through rolled-down windows and one extended digit. 

There's something to be said for the confidence required to deploy such a gesture. It demands a

certain theatrical flair, a willingness to commit fully to the moment without worrying about how

you look or whether your audience appreciates your performance, or if you've picked the correct

finger. It's the difference between those who can follow a sequence precisely and those who flow by intuition—both find their center, but only one doesn’t look ridiculous. 

I don't know why it made me smile. It seemed so trivial. Perhaps it was the absurdity of watching

two strangers have what amounted to a relationship crisis lasting exactly twelve seconds. Here

were two people who would never meet, never know each other's names, never share a coffee or

glass of wine, yet in that moment they were as intimately connected as the wife and the mistress

mid-quarrel. One had wronged the other, and the other was making dang sure the wrongdoer

knew it, even if acknowledgment would never come. All this at a four-way stop, which is

typically shorter than their twelve-second relationship crisis. 

I assume that if their travels took them to a stop sign further down the road, there may have been

some spectacular horn honking and maybe some more birds flying. The choreography of

vehicular vengeance often continues down the block, a traveling theater of righteous indignation

performed at 25 miles per hour through residential neighborhoods, past bistros and liquor stores,

around parks and shopping malls. Folks attending to their day, blissfully unaware that a small

war of manners was being waged in their peaceful streets. 

There's a peculiar hierarchy to road rage gestures that I've never fully understood. The middle

finger is the star yogini, of course, but there's a whole spectrum of lesser expressions below it.

The head shake of disappointment. The exaggerated shrug of "What were you thinking?" The

palm-up gesture of bewilderment. And then the passive-aggressive act of driving exactly the

speed limit afterward—the ever-so-popular powder blue Prius pout.   

I find myself wondering if there's a secret curriculum somewhere that teaches the proper

escalation of automotive outrage—perhaps hidden in the advanced pranayama workshops I know nothing about. Do some people instinctively know when to deploy the horn versus the gesture, the way seasoned yogis know when to modify a pose versus push through resistance? Is there a certification program in When to Fly the Bird that I somehow missed? Because clearly, there are people who have mastered this art form while I'm still fumbling with the basics of merging without apologizing to my rear view mirror—like someone attempting crow pose for the first time, wobbling and uncertain. Not that I’ve tried that. I’m still in the chicken phase when it comes to yoga.  

Perhaps my reluctance to fly the bird stems from a deeper uncertainty about my own

righteousness. The middle finger is such a definitive statement—it requires absolute conviction

that you are right, and they are wrong, the kind of unwavering belief that comes from years of

self-esteem mantras. But what if I'm the one who misread the situation? What if my turn wasn't actually my turn, and I'm the person rushing through savasana because I've lost touch with the

present moment? The powder blue Prius driver might go to happy hour with her girlfriends and

tell them about the crazy woman who glared at her (because I have perfected the glare without

taking one class) for simply following traffic flow, like complaining about someone hogging the

bolster during restorative class. The thought terrifies me more than any gesture ever could. It

messes with my self-esteem. I’d have to take a refresher course in… something.  

The real gift of the four-way stop is not just the momentary pause it forces on our hurried lives,

but the window it provides into the beautiful, ridiculous complexity of human nature. Like those

moments in yoga class when everyone's supposed to be in child's pose, but half the room is

sneaking glances around, we reveal ourselves in these mandated moments of stillness. In those

few seconds of required courtesy, we see who we really are: the rule-followers and the rule-

breakers, the performers and the audience, the patient and the perpetually running late. We are all just trying to get somewhere, and sometimes we forget that everyone else is on their own journey too. We forget that a four-way stop is the perfect place to practice our smile and be neighborly.  

All this to say: I've never engaged my middle finger. Never. But it’s not about my righteousness.

Nope. It’s because giving someone “the bird” means that you must also be able to line dance.

And I can't do that, either. I can dance like a free bird until you graciously look away, but those

coordinated movements that take thought and synchronization have never been my strong suit.  

I think by this point in my life (my final third), I'll leave the middle finger in the category of, "could have learned this, but I'd rather learn to line dance" Although, truth be told, I'll not do that

either. I’ll just continue to dance outside the lines until, to quote Leonard Cohen, “I dance to the

end of love.” To do anything other than that makes me want to learn the middle finger. And I',

too old for that new trick. 

Maybe I’ll buy a powder blue Prius… or try a yoga class…