Certain new theologians dispute original sin, which is the only part of Christian theology which can really be proved.

—G.K. Chesterton

I drove up to Boston this past weekend for a little bit of lobster and a lot of hearty laughs. Escaping New York meant threading through Brooklyn’s choked latticework of side streets to reach the Van Wyck Expressway, which, in reality, is more of a prolonged pit stop than any sort of poetry in motion.

I have long maintained that if you can drive in New York City, you can drive anywhere. This is not because New York drivers are skilled in any way, shape, or form, (indeed, they are far from it), but rather because they are predictable in their unpredictability.

The yellow ones, as Buddy the Elf warned, don’t stop.

The guy in the Charger with the tinted windows will dip across three lanes without signaling.

You know, and you anticipate, all of this before you leave the driveway, so nothing surprises you.

Every driver’s ed course teaches the same doctrine: assume the other guy is about to do something stupid, and position yourself so that when he does, it costs you nothing. The assumption is almost never wrong and infinitely generalizable.

I have started applying the doctrine off the road. (Who knew driver’s ed would come in handy outside of the automobile?) Most disappointment results from the delta between what you expect will happen and what actually does.

I expect the colleague to read the memo.

I expect the girl to text me

I expect the contractor to call back.

Then I am both surprised and hurt when humanity performs exactly to spec.

The defensive driver avoids the collision because he has already made room for it. He has already forgiven the cab, which is what separates him from the cynic.

The cynic makes the same prediction and holds a grudge about it.

The optimist never makes the prediction and gets T-boned in the intersection.

The realist keeps the prediction and drops the grudge.

As it turns out, low expectations, carried sans bitterness or reservation, are a form of mercy. You stop grading people against a make-believe manual nobody has read or agreed to adhere to.

I would like to claim I am the exception. But I know for a fact I am somebody’s yellow cab. I am the reply that never came, the call I meant to return, the email draft that fell through the digital cracks. Someone out there has priced me in and made room, and their low expectations are probably the reason we are still friends.

This may well be the most reliable act of agape available: expecting nothing from one another, covering the difference, and loving them all the same.

Expect the stupidity and leave a very wide berth for it.

Give a little grace and get loads back in return.

There was traffic on the Van Wyck anyway.