What Now?
He’s Driving Me Crazy. No Really!
For a variety of reasons of which I will spare you the details,
I have of late been charged with being the driver.
Normally, this would not be a big deal; after all, I’ve been driving since before …well, let’s just say I’ve been driving cars since we all drove standard shifts.
So by now, “y’know,” I’m a reasonably confident driver. I don’t speed. I don’t weave. I pay (reasonable) attention. I don’t forget my seat belt, and I don’t forget to check the rear view and the side view mirrors. I don’t follow too closely, and I break for pedestrians. In short, I’m a pretty good driver.
(Well, I won’t kid you: over the years I have had two or three accidents, but they were all the other guys’ fault. Maybe except for that ugly and hostile lady into whose car I backed into when – c’mon – it was perfectly obvious that I was pulling out; she should’ve stopped for me. One lousy little broken fender, “fr’Pete’s sake.” You would’ve thought her Mercedes had died and gone to heaven.)
Back before I did all the driving, if the Mister and I went anywhere together, he was always behind the wheel. It’s just a guy thing. So now that I have to do all the driving, that guy thing has changed into this guy thing:
“HISSSSSSS!”
That’s him, suddenly curled up in the passenger seat, freaked out for no good reason. Hissing. We’re on the freeway, so there’s no way I’m braking to a sudden stop, but his hiss has at least stopped my soul: cold. “What is your problem?” I delicately propose.
OK, it varies: Didn’t you see that car? Did you even read the speed limit? Did you look to see whether you can pass?
Secret: that terrifying hiss can definitely propel me to do – or not do – all those things he proposed.
Then there’s the “gulp.” What could possibly, you ask, merit his gulp? It is so alarming that I could really crash into the sidewalk instead of what I was probably doing, which was carefully, carefully paralleling into a perfectly – sized parking space. (Confession: once, just once, I nipped the car behind me, but I left a very sincere apology).
The Forehead Slap. This is actually my least favorite. If I’m kind’ve cheery, I don’t mind the hiss and the gulp. I can get even. But to begin with, the forehead slap is loud. And since I’m not watching him, for all I know he’s smacked his head against the window. Well, here’s the truth: the forehead slap is usually his own internal strife: why did G. allow him to be in such unspeakable danger? Isn’t life difficult enough? Can his marriage be saved? Did he do something awful to deserve this? That kind of thing.
Poor guy. Doesn’t he get…that it’s me he’s driving crazy?
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