Gah. Driving's a pain.
Let me just rant for a minute. My parental units have taken it upon themselves to train me in the art of wasting gallons of fossil fuels. And they don't seem to like the way I drive.
I'm sorry, but if an eighteen-wheeler is barrelling towards me, I'm probably going to pull away. Nevermind there's white line there--if I go over the line, I'll just get back on the road. Better than dead.
Also, since I happen to live on some curvy-ass road in the middle of nowhere, I have to take the switchback turns and twists. Which means slowing down. And since I have to be yelled at when I happen to take the turns too fast, I'm sort of being conditioned for caution.
So, then, put me on a major highway. Flatter, yes. Not as much hills and slopes. Less curves. Wider lanes. And tell me to go faster.
Speed limit's fifty-five. I'm going about forty. "Hurry up," they say. "Gonna get your ass run over." So I hurry up. Take a (gentle) curve at about fifty-three. "Slow down!" they shout. "Gonna get us all killed!"
Make up your mind, people! I know I'm voicing my impotent frustration and my deathly fear of motorized vehicles. But when I relate my concerns, they must tell me to shut up. No driving if I argue.
I'm almost willing to take that bet.
So yes, I survived the Jeep that tailgated me for ten miles. I successfully piloted our tank of a minivan on perilous plummeting hills and snaking roads. I didn't get hit by that eighteen wheeler.
And now I need a rest. And maybe a nerve pill.
You need to be logged in to comment