Uncorked

I flipped someone the bird today. I haven’t done that for a lot of years. It didn’t feel that great, but now that I’ve done it, I can’t seem to stop.
We live in a pretty small town. Slowing down to look for a parking spot, I put my left hand out the window and waved this guy in a VW around me. And the cranky son of a gun honked at me.
Now I hate honking in a small town. I just hate it. Save your honking noises for the big city, I always say, with its fancy ways and complex speech patterns, and its honking. Around here, no honking. Please.
So he honks at me and I can’t help it — I give him the finger. It’s like my finger lifted itself, smooth and swift, like a helium balloon. My hand was already out the window, right? And my middle finger just uncorked. And he honks again! Short, snippy. And I honk back! Then I park my car and go get a small pot of darjeeling. Deeeelicious.
And there it is. Some 10, or 11, or possibly even 12 years of no-bird-flipping. Gone. Just whisked away. Like a burp in a sandstorm.
I gave three or four more people the finger on the way home. I flipped off a poodle. I was out of control. And then when my seven-year-old forgot to say “please” when he asked me for a pony, you guessed it. The bird.
He said, “Pop — what’s that? What’s that strange gesture mean? Does it hurt?” And then, “Hey, I’m doing it too!” And I started to cry in a way that looked like I was laughing at something really really sad.
I can’t live this way. I’m going to try to cork it again tomorrow. I hope it doesn’t hurt.