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Humour
| Back Seat Driver |
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| I admit it. I am a back seat driver. I come from a long line of back seat drivers. | ||
| As Mom would say "she gets that from me." | ||
| I never intend to give directions. But then we are heading down the highway and | ||
| our turn is quickly approaching. My boyfriend is making no effort to merge | ||
| into the turning lane. Now I have a decision to make. I say nothing and we may | ||
| have to go miles out our way. Or I say something just as Ray is making one of | ||
| his last minute lane changes and he'll tell me not to "drive the driver". | ||
| I grab hold of the door handle. | ||
| "Aren't you turning here?" I ask quietly. | ||
| "Of course I am turning here. Don't drive the driver!" he says and the tires | ||
| screech in protest at the quick last minute merge that points us in the right | ||
| direction. | ||
| Sometimes I wait too long. | ||
| "Shouldn't we have turned there?" I ask and subconsciously grab the door handle | ||
| again. | ||
| Making a U-turn at 40 kilometers can't be good for those poor squealing tires. | ||
| I am surprised that door handle hasn't popped off yet. | ||
| "Why didn't you say something sooner?" | ||
| And men wonder why women shake their heads. | ||
| I am becoming a really bad (or maybe really good) back seat driver. These days | ||
| I am less verbal. I have this index finger that seems to automatically point in the | ||
| right direction. I swear I don't tell it to. That finger has a mind of its own. | ||
| Ray is not as verbal anymore either. He just glares. | ||
| Ray is also a back seat driver. He always complains that I follow to closely and | ||
| that I drive too fast. Why is it that I always have to suddenly brake to avoid a | ||
| collision whenever he is in the vehicle with me? | ||
| I realize how annoying I am to Ray when I drive my mother around. She is the | ||
| expert back seat driver. I have a lot to learn. | ||
| "Where are you going?" she asks. | ||
| "I am going up Blackfoot Trail." I reply, merging into the turning lane. | ||
| "Oh....Your dad never goes that way." | ||
| "I prefer this route." I tell her. | ||
| "Oh." | ||
| "Hmmm...shouldn't you change lanes?" | ||
| "Mom, it's another 5 kilometers to the next turn. There is lots of time." | ||
| "But that lane gets really busy." she says with authority. | ||
| "I can handle it, Mom." I tell her and get a little annoyed. Then I think about that | ||
| pointing finger of mine. I really must control that finger in future when Ray is | ||
| driving. | ||
| "Why are those people going 50. Don't they know it's 80 here. Honk your horn!" | ||
| Mom says, interrupting my train of thought | ||
| Don't drive the driver I think and chuckle to myself. | ||
| The only good back seat driver I knew was my grandmother. She never learned to | ||
| drive. When she was out with my grandfather she did not tell him where to go but | ||
| observed where they were going. | ||
| I visited her in Holland after my grandfather passed away. Grandma was | ||
| able to guide me through large cities like Amsterdam and Rotterdam to visit | ||
| relatives without ever getting lost or telling me I was going too fast, or following | ||
| too closely, or was in the wrong lane. | ||
| So if I 'get it' from my mother and my daughter 'gets it' from me (yes, I've noticed | ||
| my daughter has a little pointing finger too, although it is very subtle), then where | ||
| did my mother 'get it' from? Come to think of it maybe we are just the start of a | ||
| long line of back seat drivers. | ||
|
Marion de Man |
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***** |
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