I pretty much never shout in anger.

Except when I am alone inside a car and in a hurry. In that case, anything is possible. Or even likely.

Even when driving to church.

So, today, I decided to go to the Anglican service in a Protestant chapel located in a village barely five miles away.

(Didn’t know France had Protestant churches. The Bartholemew’s Day events, and all.)

I thought I knew how to get there. Over to Paulhan, skirt the edge of it, stay on the D30 highway, and on down to the small ville named Saint Pargoire, and there we go.

I already knew the names of the hymns that would be sung, which appeared on the church’s website.

But then I got lost. And then I got late … and loud.

This is not classic road rage, in the sense of wanting to hurt someone else. Running them off the road. And it’s not even about aggressive driving. It is about frustration behind the wheel.

It was anger at myself for not leaving early enough … for not scouting out the route (through an unfamiliar area) the day before … for not entering the church’s location into the GPS — because I knew how to get there, right?

That I was rushing to church made it worse.

Being late to church is an embarrassment. Of course. It should be. And everyone notices, especially if it is a small church and especially if you are a first-timer. You don’t walk in late. Not more than “first-hymn-late”, certainly.

And as I found myself on the wrong road, heading in the wrong direction, and saw the clock tick towards the start of the service … I began to express myself.

A volcanic Anglo-Saxonism that I prefer to believe no one else could hear, through closed car windows — though they probably could if they were close enough.

I finally found the church, hurriedly parked (probably illegally), went through the entrance and stopped outside the door to the sanctuary, which was open a crack. I could hear the minister speaking.

I was 10 minutes late. I considered going in … but not until the minister stopped speaking and I was covered by a hymn or some call-and-response portion of the liturgy.

The minutes ticked on.

At 17 minutes late and with the minister still speaking, I decided it was too late to walk in and make believe I wasn’t mortified and deeply guilty.

I left the church, got in the car, and about 50 feet later shouted one more word, and after a few miles of driving over empty roads pacified me … I wondered if shouting like that could injure a voice. (I imagine it could.)

And it struck me that being late and feeling stymied, while behind the wheel, makes me angrier than just about anything in the world. Even important things. Crazy, but there you go.

So, that bit of self-realization, anyway — if not any inspiration/forgiveness from the once-a-month church service I missed. Through my own fault.