Men can’t drive.
After thirty-five years of marriage, I can boldly say that my husband drives no better today than he did when I met him in September 1974.
I invite everyone to take a drive down “Interstate Man,” exiting onto any one of the off ramps to various and sundry “Man Avenues,” “Man Boulevards,” “Man Streets,” “Man Drives”—you get the picture, he owns the roads! I dare say, with very rare exception, all men can attach their name to any street. It’s the attitude.
I love the fact that my hubby can read minds (mine excluded). He has no need to signal, or drive defensively in any way as he knows what other drivers are going to do, even what the other driver thinks. Mind you, I am the one who has “safe driver” on the driver’s license, but hubby is the one who does all the driving.
We “little ladies” must sit sedately on the right side of the car, with the rare privilege of being chauffeured to any place we want to go. I have compared notes with other wives, and this malady seems epidemic. Most of us admit to playing the “driving instructor” game—using the phantom brake pedal, steering with our bodies swaying from side-to-side, gritting our teeth and clutching the hand rest in stoic silence. Husbands drive wives, regardless of who may be the better driver.
Besides reading minds, my husband possesses eyes in the back of his head—or maybe they encircle his entire head in a 360-degree fashion. I rarely watch the road while riding along with hubby (I don’t care to keep track of the near misses), but once in awhile I will glance over at him before speaking to him and invariably am greeted with the back of his head as he admires a variety of objects or people off on the side of the roadway.
I have a friend who is thankful that most of the roads near her have four lanes. Her husband suffers from the “drifting driver” syndrome where the lines that separate lanes are of absolutely no consequence. My friend bravely smiles as her husband drifts until she notices herself to the left of the double yellow line, then she will patiently and calmly get her husband’s attention focused back to the two lanes on the far right.
My husband can attest to the fact that I am not so calm. I honestly feel every time I leave the driveway belted in the right front seat with my husband at the wheel that I might be meeting Jesus sooner than I ever imagined.
We no longer take road trips. The last real vacation we had we drove separate cars. I know he drives many, many more miles than I do every day, and that he has not been in an accident in years, but that does not mean one treats 3000 pounds of speeding metal (or plastic) with indifference.
Men drive faster, wait until the last minute to stop, button hole, drift, skirt stop signs, dash through “pink” lights, and all-in-all show patent disregard for life or limb once behind the wheel.
I think I’ll find an alternative. Wanted: Adult three wheeled bicycle. Leave a message at the beep.
