Over the weekend I rented a car to get from San Francisco International Airport up to wine country, and when the lovely lady at the service desk asked if I’d be interested in a red turbo-charged muscle car, my only question was, “Is it a hybrid?” I mean, this is Northern California. When she said no, I was like, you know, I’m already wearing my raw meat evening gown with the head of a slaughtered free range chicken as a hat. Let’s hope for tinted windows!
I’d never driven a car like that before, and I hate to admit it, but that was one hell of a ride and pretty much perfect for the way I drive: aggressive and unforgiving. I resent speed limits. I hold grudges for days against people who drive slowly in the lane leading up to an exit and then don’t even exit. I want to follow them home and leave a note on their windshield that says YOU ARE RUINING PEOPLE’S LIVES.
Why are you looking at me as if I’m passive-aggressive? I’m a former Mormon. It’s called Righteous Indignation.
I also cannot be in the passenger seat of a car when someone is driving much too cautiously, which pretty much means Tyrant is not ever allowed to drive me anywhere ever again. You would think that someone with the name Tyrant would be all over getting to his destination with vigor and purpose! But he is the exact opposite and cannot even bring himself to change lanes. Ever. OH! And he’s the type of driver who starts to slow down about a hundred yards from a stop sign. I’m breaking out in a rash just remembering this.
We were headed to my sister’s house to take some measurements of her basement for a design project I was working on, and before we had even left the driveway I wanted to call her and say, sorry for the inconvenience, but we’ll be there in about four days, give or take a week.
And then only if I haven’t rolled down the window and purposefully jumped in front of an eighteen wheeler.
It just TOOK. FOR. EVER. And I remember at one point leaning forward unconsciously thinking that by doing so I could generate enough momentum to get us there faster.
Finally my forehead reached the dashboard, and he was like, “Am I making you uncomfortable?” And I almost started to cry because I could tell that in asking me that question he had to balance his concentration between the road in front of him and the words coming out of his mouth, like he was risking everything.
When we arrived… oh wait. We’re still not there. I should call my sister and let her know I’m okay.