Raw Drip

Dick is  a la-dee-da driver.  What’s a la-dee-da driver, you ask?  Let me put it like this:  with Dick at the wheel we routinely cruise past highway exits, through red lights, and right by our intended destination.  This is because the la-dee-da driver possesses an uncanny ability to slip into a zen-like state of semi-consciousness where theirs is the only car on the road and space & time lose all significance. 

How often do you arrive at work and can’t remember any specifics of your commute?  From time to time we all find ourselves zone-driving.  It’s the monotony of our daily grind - home to work, work to home, on and on, day in and day out - that becomes such a routine our brain’s auto-pilot kicks in to save us from ourselves.   But the la-dee-da driver acts as if every outing were following a routine.  It’s as if the la-de-daa’s auto-pilot never disengages. 

Any suburban mom will tell you:  Planning is key to successfully navigating any shopping trip.  And since planning is what I spend all my free time doing these days,  I find it particularly annoying when la-dee-da Dick misses the first left into our local shopping center, thus causing us to have to cue up behind all the other drivers who are stuck waiting to get past the busy grocery store spewing out an endless stream of elderly shoppers.  When this happens (and it happens a lot), I like to point out that if he’d been paying attention and we’d gone my way we’d already be safely parked, in the store, running our errands.  This point gets the kind of enthusiastic response one would expect -typically a, “Yes, dear*” in a tone of voice sure to strip me of any sense of satisfaction.

*For the record, anytime a husband refers to his spouse as “dear” I can assure you that the spouse in question probably isn’t being viewed as particularly “dear” in that moment. 

More offensive to my la-dee-da driver than my condescending remarks are my occasional assaults on his deadened senses.  You see, if you have a la-dee-driver in your life, much like sleepwalkers, it’s best not startle them when they’re in their zone.  Dick gets really angry when I warn him of potential road hazards by screaming.  

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I find it difficult to sit idly by while the spectre of imminent death looms ahead and my la-dee-da driver seems oblivious to its presence.  So when my own invisible brake fails to stop us and finger-pointing accompanied by high-pitched squeals of “daht-daht-daht!!” fail to engender a response, I am forced to scream.  In the past my screams were of the horror movie “I’m-about-to-be-slaughtered” variety which usually resulted in the following conversation: 

Dick (angry): “What’s up with the screaming?  You nearly caused us to have an accident!”

Me: ”I almost caused an accident?  What about the one I saved us from having?  You would’ve driven straight into that car if it hadn’t been for me.  My ’screaming’, as you call it, was actually the warning you needed to wake up and pay attention to the road!”

Dick: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.  Everything was under control.  You know what was more dangerous than that car?  YOU!  You startled me and caused me to lose focus.  In the future, if you see a road hazard, warn me in a calm tone of voice so I can react appropriately.”

Me: “Are you insane?  I startled you?  What person when faced with death is going to sit back and calmly say, “Pardon me, darling, but are you aware of that large truck ahead who’s mysteriously come to a complete stop in front of us?  Hm. Perhaps a gentle application of the brakes would be in order?”

Dick: ”No need for sarcasm, dear (there it is again), I understand that you were frightened, but screaming is hardly going to provide me with the necessary information to deploy evasive maneuvers effectively.  Use your words, please.”

Ouch.  His comebacks are always so much sharper than mine.  When my behavior can be summed up with a common refrain we both use to coach our children, I can’t help but to pay attention. 

So despite how annoying I find his assertion that my screaming is more dangerous than his ignorance of his surroundings, we’ve managed to reach a compromise, of sorts.  I’ve promised to try to reign in my instinct for self-preservation and form words that will specifically warn him of the nature of the road hazard.  Now when faced with the spectre of imminent death or dismemberment, I’m able to sputter out something less scream-like and more substantive like, “Car…left! Red….light! STAHP!!!” 

For his part, Dick’s acknowledged his la-dee-da driving tendencies and allows me to tease him about it, relentlessly.