Friday, November 27, 2009

Driven to Drive

Yesterday, my wife picked me up from work and immediately slid into the passenger seat so I could drive us home. Nothing makes me feel like I still wear the pants in my relationship more than being the driver of choice for any trip short or long. Most of the time, our relationship is all about compromise. When I’m driving, the clutch decisions (pun intended) are all mine. Merge right away or sneak up to the front of the line and dart in? That’s my call. Choose toll booth lane 1 or 2? The captain of this four-wheel vehicle will decide.

Glancing over at my wife on a recent four-hour drive though, I couldn’t help but feel some envy. Here I am staring straight ahead over-thinking the past week and the week ahead and she’s stretched back, mouth wide-open in a deep, restful sleep. I guess the energy she spent reading magazines for the past hour really tired her out.

Maybe I should close my eyes for a bit next time that happens. Those rumble strips on the side of the road should wake us both up in time, right? Ok, that’s extreme. I guess we could come to an agreement that she drives some of the time. If I do that, though, we might start down a slippery slope. Soon my wife could be manning the grill, taking out the trash, and commandeering my role as the big spoon in bed.

Nope, Driving Miss Daisy it is and will continue to be.

1 comment:

  1. My Love is always alerting me to the obvious dangers when I drive: that car is stopped ahead; that 18-wheeler is merging in front of you. Instead, she should be urging me NOT to turn into that Dunkin' Donuts for a cup and half dozen crullers.