Driving Miss Crazy

When my family goes out together, say, for dinner, my dad or sister usually drives, because my mom can be a bit of a princess sometimes and doesn't drive the family unless she has to. So I'd forgotten how much her driving makes me crazy. She's not a particularly unsafe driver: she doesn't speed, she checks her blindspots, she uses her blinkers, and she doesn't tailgate. Usually. But she doesn't understand the concept of gradually applying the gas pedal or brake. Instead, when brake lights start glowing on the highway, she stomps repeatedly on the brake pedal, making all the passengers in the car look like drunk bobblehead dolls. And after she comes to a full stop, say, at a red light, she slowly pumps the brake pedal so that we creep forward an inch at a time, until we're practically in the backseat of the car in front of us. Similarly, when speeding up, say on the freeway onramp, she guns the gas until we're a tad too close to the car in front, releases to slow down, guns it again, releases, guns, only to hit the brakes sharply when traffic slows down. Gah!

Last night, my mom drove us to go shopping and I was reminded how much I hate the way she drives. I felt myself slipping back into old roles--parent and child--and all the accompanying feelings. I found myself getting irritated over what was basically nothing, and the urge to snap at her about her driving was overwhelming. But then it occurred to me: she drives like this all the time and so far, to no one's demise. I could nag her, sure, but what purpose would that serve? In the end, it wouldn't change how she drives, but it would annoy both her and me and I would be left a seething ball irrational rage. So when we left the store, I offered to drive.

The way I see it, if a situation is bothering me, I can do something to change it, but if I choose not to make any changes, I can shut up about that which annoys me. So I've become my mother's chauffeur. Yep, driving Miss Crazy.