A few years ago, when I got a speeding ticket, I was offered the option of attending traffic school in lieu of a black mark on my otherwise spotless driving record. I showed up at City Hall promptly at 6 PM, hoping my educational experience would end at the advertised 8:30 PM. The instructor was 25 minutes late and quite disorganized. By 8:15 PM he was on slide 18 of 123 and seemed to be just getting into the groove. My heart sunk and I was quickly getting resentful. At 8:26 PM he launched into what promised to be a lengthy story about a fascinating multi-car accident. I felt a toxic sense of dread and powerless. After all — this was his meeting, not mine — and I need the points taken off my driving record.