Yesterday, as I was leaving the very same coffee shop I’m sitting in right now, I crossed the street in the middle of the block.

There were cars coming, but they were slowed by traffic. I could have walked to the corner. I should have walked to the corner. I know that. And on any other day, actually at any other moment in this day as well, I never would have crossed where I did.

But yesterday I had just had enough of everything.

I was leaning hard on my cane because my equilibrium has been decimated by this cold. I couldn’t tell up from down, but I could tell there were no cars coming from the right and only slow cars a block away to my left.

So I crossed.

Straight to the rideshare car parked across the street from me.

Once I made it up onto the curb and had my hand on the door handle, a woman yelled angrily from her tiny red car:

HEY WHAT’S WRONG WITH THE CROSSWALK?!

I didn’t respond. I didn’t even turn my head. I just went through the careful choreography of opening the door and quietly climbing into the back seat of the ready and waiting car.

When she yelled, every single one of my hackles went up.

If I were a cat, every hair would have been standing on end. Back arched. Legs locked straight. Hissing. Jumping in place.

HISSSSSSSS.

I do what I want, bitch.

But here’s the thing.

I get so fucking mad when people cross in the middle of the street. Especially here in Portland, where every corner-to-corner crossing is a legal crosswalk and pedestrians have the right of way. I always go to the corner. I always made my kid cross at the corner. I make friends visiting town cross from corner to corner.

Except yesterday.

It was a humbling moment.

A learning moment.

I was still wrong.

I would probably still do it again.

I wish that woman had paused long enough to imagine a reason. And I hope I can keep practicing that pause myself… even when I’m tired, even when I think I’m right.

Because yesterday, I wasn’t trying to make a point. I was trying to make it home.