Of Fast Food and Driver’s Etiquette

My mother used to get off on letting people merge in front of her and letting them take her turn at four-way stops. Often she let so many people in front of her that it made her late, but she didn't care. She was usually late anyway, and she said it made her feel civilized.
With a different take on civilization and deep-rooted hatred for tardiness, my father will yell at anyone and anything that irritates him behind the wheel, unleashing cruel ad hominem remarks about weight, hair, teeth, etc., with liberal use of the words “douchebag” and “dumbshit,” aimed at everyone from old people and children to the local Hardee’s.
My own behavior leans toward my father’s side, but with a slight emphasis on gutlessness. Once in a Wendy’s parking lot a man cut me off and when I yelled something, he rolled down his window to ask me sinisterly if I had a problem.
“NO, OF COURSE I DON’T HAVE A PROBLEM!” I screamed back at him.

This morning pulling out of a McDonald’s with my breakfast I found the narrow alley I was taking back to Main blocked by a brown Chevy whose driver was feeling a little timid about moving past me. Irritated and late for work, I asked the car to "hurry up already,” and made a circular waving motion with my right hand. To my surprise the car pulled up beside me, and the driver, a sassy black woman so stereotypical I cringe at describing her for fear of seeming racist, rolled down her window and started shouting at me as though I were her child and I had just stolen some Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups from CVS.
“You don’t talk to me like that!” she yelled.
Maybe if she was the big guy from Wendy’s I would have been intimated, but she wasn’t.
“What are you even talking about?” I yelled back, “I just wanted you to get on with it. See this gesture? (demonstrated gesture) That was me waving you ahead.”
“You better be glad I’m not your mother,” she told me.
“My mother knew how to drive better than that. Stop being slow and making other people late for work,” I advised her, and she drove away.
For a few minutes I felt bad, like I had started my day off by being petty and immature and yelling at someone I should have respected. Then I thought about it for a few minutes. I gave her as much respect as she was entitled to: I didn’t make any obscene gestures or remarks, and I responded to anger with reasoned criticism. What’s to feel bad about?
Between my mother’s over-the-top deference to others and my father’s bitter anger, this seems like the happy medium.