I am not agist. The truth is I think Americans start driving way too young and keep driving when they are way too old. The truth is I don’t like anyone driving a car.
My youngest son’s school is tough to get to from anywhere. It’s set on a bucolic farm area and all roads that lead to it are narrow, winding country roads. A nice drive if I give myself double the time I usually allow myself to get there.
Charlie had a dentist appointment this week. I’d missed his last one because I’m an airhead so he couldn’t be late or I’d fall into the category of neglectful mother who gives her kid Laffy Taffy at bedtime.
I left forty minutes before his appointment, plenty of time to arrive early, dive into the latest People magazine and let them bask in my motherly efficiency of arriving for his appointment with more than ten minutes to spare.
All was going accordingly until a tan Chevrolet Lumina floated out of a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot in front of me. The driver was barely visible, he was so short. All I could see was a plaid wool golf cap–the dreaded universal badge of an ancient driver!
He settled himself squarely in the middle of the road and proceeded to drive 18 miles per hour.
My blood pressure rose so fast I could feel my eyes bugging out of my head. Where are the damn police when this garden gnome rolled out into a busy street without looking for oncoming traffic (me!)? You’d think Dunkin Donuts would be the ideal place for police to catch a bad driver. No luck that day.
I still had plenty of time. This guy would surely be following Route 1A to a second elderly gathering spot: CVS pharmacy, but NO! His big tan car rolled along my route, holding a steady 15 to 18 mph speed. Of course his destination was near my school. The only time he picked up the pace was to race through intersections that he was supposed to stop.
Of course we were five minutes late for the dentist and the victim of my tirade was poor Charlie. He was subject to my 10 minute rant about people who don’t belong on the road. The only good bit of information I gave the poor boy was to check out the driver’s hat. A hat is a dead give-away and a plaid wool golf hat is always a sobering sight–get away from that as fast as you can.
We both looked like we’d been dragged through “A scared straight” session when we arrived for at the dentist. “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! We got caught behind a slow driver!” was my excuse this time. The staff looked at me with withering, know-it-all stares and hustled Laffy-Taffy boy off to his cleaning.