Driving Miss Crazy

I’m not a bad driver. Really. I’m not. But when my husband gets in the car with me, I swear, it’s like I morph into a 15 year old in a Driver’s Ed class. He makes me so nervous. My white knuckled grip on the steering wheel amuses him. He’s a total antagonist. You would think after 9 years with him, I’d have learned to not let him see how he gets to me. But I suppose my thin skin is part of my charm. I guess it would be to an antagonist.

Here’s how a 10 minute drive to the mall goes with Jeremy in the car:

“Babe. Seriously. You’re a late breaker.”

“HOLY--!!! BABE. You almost hit that car.”

“Babe, why didn’t you just turn there?!”

“Speed up, speed up, put your blinker on! GO! BABE! Honestly, if I wasn’t here you’d still be waiting to get over.”

“You totally just missed like five parking spaces. I guess we’ll be walking.”

Don’t even get me started on parallel parking. I don’t even try it anymore. I just get out, hand the keys to him, and wait. It’s not like I can’t do it. I parallel park in front of my house all the time. But never with him in the car.

So yesterday, after the above comments, I got out of the car. I walked on the opposite side of the parking lot from him. And when I heard him tell Chloe, “We’re walking this far because Mommy missed five parking spaces”, I threw the keys at his feet and said,

“HERE. DRIVE.”

I’m never, ever, driving Miss Crazy again. I won’t be responsible for my actions if it comes to that. Who knows? Maybe a convenient side swipe on the passenger’s side? Perhaps an accidental finger crush in the automatic window. Or he likes adventurous car movies. I can pull a Fast and the Beyond Furious move on him, and toss him out on the highway. Maybe he’ll find a good driver to take him home.

If you read this, BABE, you know I love you. And from now on, I’d just really love for you to drive.