When you are the passenger of a moving vehicle, you maintain a death grip on your door handle and dig your nails into the thick, durable plastic that the insides (of not luxury) cars are made of in order to prevent yourself from careening off the road into a flaming, destructive situation of DOOM, right?
You do this, too? No? It's really only the crazies who behave this way?
Huh, you don't say.
I'm not sure when I started freaking the freak out like that in cars, but it's pretty bad. When my husband and I do argue, it's more often than not because of my insane, banshee-yelping while we're on the road.
And people, we have driven up and down this coast together two different times, and we are about to embark on another cross-country road trip next month. Slightly masochistic? No. Free, unmediated marriage counseling? Yes!
It's just that, in my head, everyone around me becomes the The Most Dangerous Driver Ever, and I am consequently convinced that people are targeting me specifically. Like, vehicular homicide was on their to-do list that morning, and oh! There is someone I can hit my car with now! The little person with the dark hair and vampire-like skin (in paleness not sparkle-ness), GET 'EM!
I don't even know.
My overactive imagination is usually a blessing. I think of great dinner combinations on the fly. I can make believe the shit out of some unicorns. I can always find a way to fix anything with tape.
But put me in a car and expect me to behave like a normal person? Forget it. We might not be friends on the other side of wherever we're going because I will claw your face off in order to get you to press harder on that brake pedal.
If I had to blame anyone (Because obviously this is not my fault and it's totally out of my control. Obviously.) I would blame my driving instructor from way back when (*cough*2003*cough*how did I get this old?).
I don't remember his name. I don't even remember what kind of stupid trainer car we drove around in, but I do remember that he had the creepiest laugh ever, and he had a Franciscan monk bald spot like no other person in the History of Real Life. I spent 20 hours in a vehicle with him holding onto the passenger side door for dear life. That is just not a good influence.
He would always rattle off statistics about how female drivers and Asian drivers are, statistically, the worst drivers ever. Racism and sexism, anyone? Normally, that sort of shit talk pisses me off like no other, and I have been known to fly off the handle after hearing such comments (or when things aren't at right angles). I would have said something were it not for the fact that I was trying so hard not to die.
He also looked at me sideways, and it wasn't because he was sitting next to me.
It was because he was crazy.
Shortly after getting my license, I ran into him in the ladies apparel section of a department store, and while he didn't see me, I saw his bald spot and drove like a bat out of hell to get the eff away from that mall convinced that he would start coming after me if I didn't maintain my vigilance.
So, I'm watching for you, Creepy Driving Instructor Guy. I know what you're up to, and I know you've since trained hundreds, possibly thousands of other people to come after me on the road.
Who's crazy now, bitch?!
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