Bad drivers truly are the bane of my existence. And surly shop clerks. They kind of work my last couple of nerves as well. But mostly bad drivers.
I witnessed a couple of things this weekend that just completely had me scratching my head. I think part of being a good driver (which I wholeheartedly believe I am) is anticipating what other drivers are doing and are going to do.
Sometimes I think I know what a driver is going to do before he or she does. It’s like a 5th sense, to quote “Baby Mama.”
DISCLAIMER: All of these incidents involve female drivers. I do not think that is an indictment of female drivers—I just think it’s coincidence. I don’t subscribe to the notion that men are better drivers. I think the suckage is pretty universal.
Situation Number One: A driver in the right lane, with loads of room ahead of her, decides suddenly that she ABSOLUTELY has to be in my lane. RIGHT NOW.
A quick blinker and a swerve later, I’m hitting my breaks so that I’m not exploring the trunk of her car. Now, I could kind of understand this bone-headed action if she had needed to make a quick left.
But she didn’t turn. At all. For five more blocks.
So why the fuck did you need to be in my lane?
Situation Number Two: I am in the left lane. There is a car a little less than a car-length ahead of me in the right lane. I am moving at a slightly higher speed than the car in the right lane. The impatient driver behind me, who has been zipping in and out of traffic, accelerates and takes the right lane, where she promptly has to put on the breaks because she has basically driven into an automotive canyon.
I move past the line of cars to my right. There is now an acre of room behind me. So what does Missy Hurry do? Nuthin’. She just sits back there at the end of the line.
So you sped up to slow down? Oh. That makes sense!
Situation Number Three: A new twist on the ol’ tailgator. A slightly post-college woman in her nice BMW was riding the bumper of anyone who happened to be in front of her. At 35 miles an hour, I guarantee you there was no more than 4 feet between her car and the car in front of her. In this case, that was me. While I was wishing for a bigger rearview mirror, so that she could fully register the extent of my reproaching scowl, I noticed that she had now added a notebook and pen to the driving mix and was busy using her steering wheel as a desk, writing away furiously. Over the course of the next 10 blocks or so, I witnessed the notebook being pulled out three more times. Followed by a furious burst of scribble.
Was she writing a freaking novel? A grocery list (if so, those are some complex ingredients). I guess it would make too much sense for it to be her will.
I arrived at my destination and wondered who the patron saint of shitty drivers is. ‘Cause they’ve got to be selling a shit load of those medallions.