Picture it: regular morning traffic, 7:30 a.m., some asshole is driving too close to us. My husband, who is driving me to work, is holding a cup of coffee with one hand, blowing his nose with his other hand, steering with his fucking knees, and smack-talking the tailgater behind us in the rearview mirror. He decides that if this jackhole is going to drive that close then he should teach him a lesson, so he intentionally drives below the speed limit in an effort to get the other car to either get pissed off enough to pass us or back off entirely. (This is a horrible strategy in my opinion. Just chill, dude.)
After a few minutes of this ridiculousness, the car behind us apparently got the message and backed off our bumper, and we finally sped back up to the damn speed limit. I’m sitting in the passenger seat red-faced and pissed off because now I am late for work.
I love my husband more than the stars and the moon and box wine on sale at Trader Joe’s, but holy hell, his driving makes me want to shake him to death.
What is it about driving that makes people lose their shit, anyway?
My husband and I are never in agreement when it comes to anything even remotely related to the driving experience.
He likes to blast the heat in the car to a comfortable “I’m sweatier than a hairy ball sack in summer” while I prefer to be warm enough to wear a light jacket or even a sweater, but not feel like I need to strip down to my skivvies and peel my thighs off the damn seat.
He likes to listen to NPR, get stark raving pissed about whatever latest thing Trump has done, and then spend the next 15 minutes ranting about how we’re all going straight to hell. Straight. To. Hell. And if it isn’t the political hothead rantings then he wants to listen to “his” music which, I gotta tell you, is straight-up torture for me.
Confession: Sometimes, just to get sweet revenge on my husband, I intentionally play the easy listening station that features the likes of Celine Dion and Depeche Mode. It is so satisfying to watch the throbbing veins on his forehead twitch. But I digress.
No matter where we are driving, my husband will get super-distracted by shit on the side of the road. “Oh, look! That house is being remodeled, I hope they don’t tear down that old barn — it’s so beautiful,” or “Yard sale!” and then he’ll slow down to rubberneck the roadside offerings.
I try to be kind when I point out this kind of stuff, so I loving say things like, “For fuck’s sake! That yellow line is not a suggestion!” but my compassionate words meant to encourage more stable driving fall on deaf ears. “But, look! They have vintage record players back there. That’s it — we’re turning around. I want to see if I can talk down whatever price it is.”
Obviously, I’m a perfect driver. But right now, I am outto-here pregnant and can’t reach the pedals and steering wheel at the same time anymore, so I’m stuck with having to depend on my husband to drive me everywhere for a while.
I don’t know why driving is that thing that can send anyone over the edge, but it does. My husband’s driving makes me want to pull my own hair out, and I am sure that my slow-poke, religiously-follow-the-rules-of-the-road, and cautious tendencies are equally annoying to my husband. The day that I can finally reach those pedals, the steering wheel, and the other gadgets that make a car go is the day that I say “sayonara!” to my husband whose driving makes me fucking insane.