I’m not a super confident driver. OK, I basically drive like a grandma. But a grandma who obeys traffic rules and the posted speed limits. So when you see me driving 45 down this winding country road, all I ask of you people in your gigantic SUVs and your pickup trucks: Please don’t kill me.
This year I am my children’s chauffeur. Last year I lucked out because I had a high school student at home who would do the pickup, and a husband who would do the drop-off. This year it’s all me, and I hate it. Not only is it a 40-minute round-trip commute — it takes me down a two-lane stretch of road that is not only winding, but has a few schools along the way.
I like schools. I like kids. I worry about kids getting hit by cars. And I worry about some jerk plowing into me while I have my own kids in the car. So I’m a cautious driver. I drive 45 in the 45 zone. Which is why it totally spooks me and freaks me out and sends me into a white-knuckled panic attack when some asshole pulls up behind me and barrels down on me because I’m not going over the speed limit. What is with you people who do this? You need to get to where you are going 30 seconds ahead of time? You like intimidating us moms who are simply trying to drive our kids safely to school? Or are you trying to overcompensate for some other area in which you are lacking?
I’ve now become obsessed with my speedometer. The other morning when I was driving the kids I noticed I was going 47. Totally reasonable. Behind me was some stupid crossover where the lady wasn’t pleased I wasn’t flooring it.