Distracted Drivers

I wish I could remember useful, important things--like what six multiplied by 12 equals, but no, instead I remember lame things. For example, when I was in 8th grade, our school counselor told us that if we're not comfortable riding with a driver who is also on their cell phone, we should speak up for ourselves and voice our concern. This was even before text messaging existed, or at least it wasn't popular. (Wow, that makes me feel old and I'm only 24.) While talking and driving has never made me fear my safety (with most people), texting and eating do.

When we're out of breakfast food at home, Mike and I stop at Kwik Trip before we get on the highway to come to work. So with one hand he'll eat his croissant sandwich and hashbrown sticks, while driving 60 mph through bumpy construction and a cement wall inches from me. Sometimes knees are used while he unwraps, or sips some O.J., because God forbid I assist. And that's when panic mode begins. Knees don't have thumbs. Hands have thumbs, and that's what should be used to steer a car. My heart races as my eyes dart from the steering wheel to the cement wall. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, grasping the door handle for the slightest sense of security.

And while I express my concern EVERY time, I'm told that it's fine. That he's never been in an accident before. Well guess what, just because you haven't yet, doesn't mean you won't in the future, and I don't care to be in that crash. I don't care for you to be in it either. All I ask is for ONE hand on the wheel. ONE. Because you don't know that your knees can steady the car if you go over a big bump in the road. Or if the car next to you decides to cross the center line. Or if the car behind you pulls into your trunk.

Of course Michael is not the only distracted driver I know. I see them daily on my commutes. Sometimes even I don't dedicate 100% of my focus to driving (sometimes Chapstick is more important). But I trust me. You'd think I'd trust my fiancé, too! Grandma never handled Grandpa's driving well either, though. I am just like her. She used to get so worked up and nervous just driving down the street. She'd blurt out, "John!" as she reached for the "oh shit handle" even though nothing was wrong. Six-year-old me was too carefree to be scared of his tailgating or abrupt stopping patterns. Grandpa and I just laughed, because obviously she was being silly.

So I'd like to say to my 8th grade counselor that voicing my concerns got me nowhere--thanks for the advice.