Presidio
Sentinel San Diego, January 2017
By
Laura Walcher
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.
(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’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? ###
