Practically One Foot In The Grave

When Rhiannon and I travel together on the weekends, we usually use her car (the nicer, newer one). When Rhiannon and I travel together on the weekends, I usually drive. This leads to comments like “You be nice to my car” and threats of what will happen if I ever get in an accident with it. Last weekend, while going to Rhiannon’s school Christmas party, we drove around the neighborhood looking at the lights on the houses. And I enjoyed it, which is just the opposite of when I was younger and would rather listen to sharp nails on a chalkboard than sit in the car while my own parents drove and looked at lights.

It would always be on the way home from eating out, or a night church service or something like that. We’d be on our way and then Dad would turn off on some side street. And slow down to about 2 mph. For the next 4 hours I would try and hold my breath long enough to pass out and spare myself the torture. (In reality, it was probably 20 minutes, but to a 10 year old, that represents a significant portion of your life.)

On the way home, I was driving and Rhiannon informs me of the speed limit, and I looked down and realized I was driving five under of my own free will, and I was perfectly content doing it. So I continued.

“You really need to speed up.” “Are we in a hurry?” “No, but you’re driving like an old man.” “I am not. Besides, that old guy passed me a long time ago.” “I want a divorce. And you’re never driving my car again.”