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SURVIVING LIFE IN
THE FAST LANE |
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I'm going to come right out and say it: I am not a sexist. I
believe in equal pay for equal work, Title IX, whatever. I'm all for equal
political, economic, social, cultural and personal rights for women.
I'm just not ready to let my wife drive when I'm in the car.
Obviously, I'm not alone. Studies show even in households
that identify themselves as "feminist," nine out of ten had men
as the principal driver. Whether it's a first date or you've been married
40 years, the man is usually behind the wheel.
I'm no sociologist, so I'm not going to speculate as to why
this is the case. I'm only going to explain my reasons for insisting on
driving. Basically, it's because on those rare occasions when my wife
drives me around, I'M TERRIFIED!
It's not that she's a bad driver. On the contrary, she's an
excellent driver, probably better than me. The problem is that she
undergoes some kind of personality change when she gets behind the wheel.
The sweet, mild-mannered woman I married suddenly turns into the cartoon
character Cruella de Vil, or maybe the race car driver Danica Patrick, on
steroids.
I went through this again last weekend when I was happily
driving up to the mountains. It had been a couple of hours and my eyelids
were starting to droop.
"Are you tired?" asked my wife, a little too
eagerly.
I knew she wanted to drive, and I wasn't about to surrender. "I'm
fine," I replied while I turned up the radio.
"Are you sure?"
The noise from the radio wasn't helping. I was blinking
heavily. I opened the window and stuck my head into the 70 mph air.
"I'm fine," I repeated.
She looked at me suspiciously. She knew I was fading, and her
time was coming. And she knew I'd fight it until the risk of falling
asleep at the wheel outweighed the risk of her taking over the driving.
When she saw me pour the half-full bottle of water over my
head in a valiant attempt to stay awake, she pounced. "That's
it," she cried. "Pull over. I'm driving."
Drat. I had no choice. I reluctantly pulled off at the next
exit and found a safe place to begin the end of my life.
My wife smiled as she happily settled into the driver's seat
and moved it forward and adjusted the mirrors. She brushed her hair back,
strapped on her seatbelt and placed the sunglasses over her eyes. I
half-expected her to put on a helmet and driving gloves.
Meanwhile, I fastened my seatbelt and, as always, got ready
for the ride of my life.
I may be exaggerating a bit, but I'm pretty sure I heard
three "idiots," two "knuckleheads," and one
"clueless imbecile" expressed by my wife in regards to her
fellow drivers. And that was before we got out of the parking lot.
Then it was onto the freeway. She hit the speed limit rather
quickly, considering we were still on the onramp. Once on the freeway, her
400 pound foot on the gas pedal made it abundantly clear I wasn't going to
get much sleep even if I taped my eyelids shut.
My announcement that I was no longer tired and could take
over the driving was met with an icy stare. She had the wheel and wasn't
about to give it up anytime soon. I tried to distract myself by thinking
about why most men are reluctant to let their partners drive.
They can't all be terrified like me. Control is obviously a
big factor, and generations of sexism certainly can't be discounted. Maybe
I'm subconsciously in that group, but as I asked my wife to slow down for
the fourteenth time, my conscious mind was going with terror.
After an hour, I happily and eagerly noted we were running
low on gas. Even Danica Patrick needs fuel, and it was my chance to make a
change.
I got out of the car, kissed the ground, and felt very lucky
to be alive. After filling the tank, I slipped back into the driver's
seat.
"You sure you're okay?" she asked.
It would be hours before the terror of watching her drive
wore off. I was going to be just fine.
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