I am sitting in my car, fuming, after a jerk in a tricked-out heap cut me off in traffic, causing a near-accident and threatening my perfect driving record.

Ooooh, I think to myself. Wouldn’t a full-out, uncensored, no-holds-barred episode of road rage feel good right now!

How I’d love to chase down that punk, force him off the road, get in his face and make him cry for his mommy! What I wouldn’t give to scream and swear and gesture, unleashing my pent-up anger on this bully who terrorizes our streets! I am so sick of testosterone-laden dog-boys who always have to lead the pack. This guy needs to be brought down 10 notches, and I’m just the woman to do it!

I’d give him a mouthful, all right:

“What’s your hurry, dipstick? Late for your ‘Morons with Muscle Cars’ meeting? Or a date with your parole officer, maybe? Do the words ‘speed limit 35’ mean anything to you? Did you MISS the day in driver’s ed when they taught you to SIGNAL before CHANGING LANES, you lead-footed loser? And, oh, by the way, that early-’70s model whatever-it-is-you’re-driving might have been cool when I was in school, but now it’s just a gas-guzzling, fume-spewing Obnoxiousmobile! What did you say? You wanna piece of me?”

Ooooh, that would feel so good!

Unfortunately, it will never happen.

You see, I have been cursed by a proper upbringing in polite society. My parents, like most mothers and fathers of the ’50s, taught me not to shout, unless I was being attacked by hoodlums like the Sharks or the Jets from “West Side Story.”

In my genteel childhood, people didn’t raise their voices. They grimaced, they whined, they gritted their teeth. But they never, ever, screamed. Not in public, at least.

Oh sure, there were the daily fights between my siblings and me. Those predictable “You’re not the boss of me!” or “That’s MY side of the room!” screaming matches, followed by Mom shrieking at the top of her lungs, “NO YELLING IN THE HOUSE!” But raise our voices in front of company or perfect strangers? Heaven forbid.

I was brought up to believe that obscene gestures were rude and unladylike and, therefore, reserved for rude and unladylike men.

In school, the nuns taught me to turn the other cheek when offended, as if to say, “Go ahead, slap the left one. Don’t leave me hanging!”

And though I suspect my dad secretly enjoyed being the first car out on a green light, vehicular one-upmanship was generally frowned upon in my family.

That is why my brand of road rage tends to be, well, passive-aggressive.

When a driver follows me too closely, what I’d LIKE to do is slam on the brakes, hoping he’ll smash into my rear end so I can sue the bozo for whiplash. What I ACTUALLY do is slow down to geriatric speed, lecture him under my breath and hope he gets the message.

When someone honks at me for no reason, what I’d LIKE to do is sit on my horn until he scampers away like a scared squirrel. What I ACTUALLY do is cuss at him under my breath, give him “the look” and hope he gets the message.

When anyone changes lanes in front of me without signaling, what I’d LIKE to do is tailgate him for a mile, roll down my window and berate him with every obscenity I can think of. What I ACTUALLY do is scold him from six car lengths behind, flash my warning lights and hope he gets the message.

And that’s exactly what I do. As the delinquent in the hot rod speeds out of sight, I give him a good old-fashioned tongue-lashing from behind closed windows. I feel compromised, but content that I’ve held my tongue, contributing in a small way to civil society.

Besides, he’ll get his comeuppance. Karma is a wonderful thing. And it won’t be long before someone lacking my social graces rips the guy’s head off.