I-35 isn’t the highway to hell, it is hell itself — at least in Texas

The road to hell is Interstate 35.

I know this because I’ve had a celestial vision. While I was driving to Texas last week, an angel — at least I’m pretty sure it was angel, I’m not ruling out a BBQ sandwich purchased at a gas station messing with my mind —spoke to me and shared this fact.

I can even envision the immediate afterlife. There on a robust cumulus cloud, people wait at a transportation depot where some are told to catch a ride on the Pearly Gates Express while others are sent to hell. This means they’re shoved in a car with the “Frozen” soundtrack on a continuous audio loop and sentenced to an eternity of driving on I-35.

It totally makes sense that hell would be a highway with no exit. Forget about the fire and brimstone nonsense and the whole devil with horns and a tail. Is a little heat and a boss with anger management issues really that big of a deal when compared with being trapped in your car on a freeway, surrounded by swaying 18-wheelers, short-tempered fellow drivers, all while you’re in urgent need of a bathroom?

I-35, most especially in Texas, is more of a parking lot than an actual freeway. Last Wednesday I spent two hours just sitting in my car waiting for traffic to move in a forward progression. It was hell all right. I hadn’t needed to use the bathroom, but as soon as I got trapped on the interstate it was go time.

I suffer from the malady known as panic bladder. That’s when as soon as there is no bathroom available your bladder freaks out and decides it has an emergency situation. I prayed hard that I would not have to resort to using the 54-ounce Quik Trip cup in my car as a de facto restroom because, being female, how would you even make that work? There would be no lady-like way to complete the task. I think I’d sooner wet my pants. Fortunately, just when I thought I really need to start traveling with Depends, vehicles started moving again.

To make up for lost time it seemed as if every car and truck was going 90 mph. I’m all good with that if you’re doing the whole hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel and eyes focused on the road while making sure to check your rear and side view mirrors every 30 to 45 seconds. But, no, it was a distracted driver wonderland. Hello, going over 80 mph and looking down at your phone is not a two-fer anyone should try.

Then there are people who like to take it to the next level by performing an advanced feat of stupidity like playing hide and seek while operating a two-ton vehicle.

There was this driver that at first I thought was texting, but then I figured out he was furiously foraging for something. I had my eureka moment when I saw him eating french fries. My best guess is he was pulling a Lewis and Clark except instead of exploring new lands this guy was searching for fries that had landed either crotch adjacent or on his car floorboard.

I’m going take a controversial stand and suggest that the lives of everybody on the road take precedent over crinkle fries with zesty sauce.

An hour later, a truck duo decided to do their version of the interstate waltz. Each 18-wheeler got in a lane and kept the same pace, thus prohibiting anyone from passing them. I don’t know if this is what truckers do as a highway ha ha, but boy were they ticking people off.

Five minutes of this and cars started heading to the shoulder to pass the truckers. I hoped they were singing “Jesus Take the Wheel” because it looked like they were all headed for certain doom. I, not trusting my skills in extreme shoulder acceleration, stayed way, way behind the herd. Hey, I’m old enough to remember the adage “Stay Alive, Drive 55.” This, I believe, disqualifies me from engaging in any sort of shoulder stunt work.

Finally, the trucks tired of their I-35 choreography and one peeled off. Again, cars surged ahead only to shortly come to a complete stop. Ugh, road construction. Like everyone else I’m all for updating the nation’s aging highway infrastructure, you know, as long as it doesn’t inconvenience me.

Then it happened. No, I didn’t wet my pants, but a man got out of his car and handled nature’s call. Not semi-discreetly on the side of the road. Instead, he proudly and with vigor urinated on some traffic cones. Yes, I-35 is indeed hell.

This story was originally published March 10, 2015 at 6:15 PM with the headline "I-35 isn’t the highway to hell, it is hell itself — at least in Texas."