"Whyyyyyyyyyyy? Why would you do that??? Why? Why? Why??"
"Are you DRUNK?? You MUST be drunk - wait, it's 7:15 AM! Oh, maybe you're high on the bath salts!!"
"Don't do that, don't you do that, don't you think about - gahhh!! You @&;#$*!!! You dirty, slutty @&;#$*!"
No, these quotes aren't plucked from the police transcript of a domestic violence call. These are screeches that can be heard, several times a day, emanating from my car. More specifically, from me, inside my car.
Driving has been one of the biggest adjustments for me since my Big Move. Luckily for the motorists of the greater New York area, I happily relinquished my car when I moved to New York 13 years ago. I was never very good at driving. It took me four tries to pass my driving test when I was sixteen. Before the fourth attempt, Mr. Spicer, my examiner, glared at me from over the top of his glasses. "We WILL pass this time, won't we, Miss Megan?"
We did. Barely.
After victimizing several mailboxes, one parked Mac truck, and more or less leaving a path of destruction and terror in the wake of my 1990 Honda, I handed the keys to my brother when I moved to NYC and never looked back. When people in New York complained about missing driving, I looked at them like they had a second head. What is there to miss? The hassle of parking? The gas and insurance costs? The speeding tickets? (Okay, maybe that one is just me.)
Alas, moving back to Kentucky meant getting back behind the wheel, come what may.
What has come, to my total lack of surprise, is frustration. Lots of frustration, coupled with utter bewilderment, and topped off with a new appreciation for my creative cursing skills.
There are a few idiosyncrasies I've noticed to Louisville driving that are especially infuriating. There's what I call the "Louisville Drift", where motorists slip nonchalantly from lane to lane, turn signals be damned. There's also the "Friendly Cut-Off", where someone will peel out in front of you, and apologize by way of a cheerful "sorry I almost murdered you!" wave.
The thing that drives me the craziest, though, and leaves me sputtering out non-words, has no catchy name. The simplicity of it is maddening: It's turning. People here come to a near dead stop every time they turn. Every. Single. Time. Cruising down the road at a comfortable 45 MPH? HAHA! Nope!! The idiot in front of you needs to turn off, and he must come to a COMPLETE FREAKING STOP before he can do so.
I'm getting back into the swing of driving. I haven't taken out any mailboxes (yet). Every day I get into my car, I tell myself, "Today is the Zen day! No cursing today!"
Hasn't happened yet, but that doesn't mean there's no hope.
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| My pal + my wheels |
