If you’ve never sat through Miami traffic with two kids in the backseat fighting over whose turn it is to hold the iPad, then I envy you deeply. I envy your peace, your blood pressure, your ability to listen to music without the soundtrack of “Moooom, he touched me!” layered over it. Meanwhile, I’m stuck on I-95, staring at the same bumper sticker for twenty-five minutes straight, plotting my villain arc like it’s the origin story of a Marvel character no one asked for.
Here’s the thing about Miami traffic—it’s personal. It’s not just cars; it’s personalities. You’ve got the guy in the neon green Lambo swerving like he’s auditioning for a Fast & Furious spin-off. You’ve got the abuela in a beat-up Corolla who somehow manages to cut off five lanes in one seamless swoop. And then there’s me, clenching the steering wheel, pretending that Rex’s suggestion of “leaving a little earlier next time” isn’t grounds for divorce.
The kids don’t make it easier. Nico, in his infinite seven-year-old wisdom, always chooses these gridlock moments to ask life’s hardest questions. “Mom, do you think dinosaurs had belly buttons?” Excuse me? I’m currently trying to merge while a motorcycle is threading the needle between my side mirror and certain death. Now is not the time for prehistoric anatomy debates. Anthony, meanwhile, treats every red light like it’s his personal stage, chanting nonsense songs at the top of his lungs. Sometimes he’ll add beatboxing, which sounds less like music and more like a small animal choking.
By the time we hit the Dolphin Expressway, I’m bargaining with higher powers. Please, just let this light turn green before I say something that gets me written about on a neighborhood Facebook page. My iced coffee is already watered down, my left leg is sore from riding the brake, and my sanity is slipping away like sand through a cheap plastic beach toy.
And yet, the minute we finally break free and the road opens up, I feel like I’ve been set loose from prison. Windows down, music up, hair whipping around while Anthony drops Cheerios all over the backseat and Nico sighs like he’s been through the Great Depression. It’s pure freedom… for about three miles, until the next jam. That’s the Miami promise.
But I’ll tell you what: as much as I threaten to pack it all up and move to some small town where “traffic” means waiting behind one tractor, I know deep down I’d miss it. The chaos, the honking symphony, the characters who cut me off and then wave like they’ve just done me a favor—it’s part of the fabric of living here. Miami traffic tests me, breaks me, and somehow still convinces me to get back in the car the very next day like I’ve learned nothing.
So yes, if my villain origin story ever gets made into a movie, forget tragic backstory or dark magic. It’ll just be me, in my SUV, three exits past where I was supposed to turn, silently screaming while Anthony sings about farts and Nico asks if sharks can get braces. Roll credits.