Day 71: Road Rage

He said; "Why are you being so mean to me?"

I said; "Because sometimes you just do stupid things. You just do stuff, and you're doing it now.  You're just doing and not thinking."

We're stopped about five yards past the stop sign at a four way.  Rich is waving on the car who had the right of way.  But he's also blocking the vehicle's right of way, so no one is moving and everyone is waving and now I'm getting angry.  When I say I don't know how he survives without me riding shotgun, it's not just a cliche, it's the terrifying truth.  The man can't drive.  He speeds on the highway.  He doesn't use directionals.  Despite his avid love of a standard transmission, he stalls out at least once a day and forgets about fifth gear.   My husband has been written a ticket on a lonesome highway in Nebraska, for following another car too closely. 

We spent the first year of our marriage fighting about his driving.  We lived in Boston, a city defined by terrible driving and so Richard felt quite at home as he ran red lights and cut in front of traffic, rocking to a complete stop before accelerating to sixty five on a northshore higway.  These were scary times.  Times my heart would shoot between the pit of my stomach and my throat and I would close my eyes and press my face into my hands.  And then I would cry, and then I would yell.  And though we never did crash into a single thing, I spent a year braced for impact.

In Maine we've found a (somewhat) happy medium.  I tell him where the stop signs are and where to turn and he mostly listens and pretends that I'm a nag.  Though we both know he couldn't make it to the mall without me in the car.  But as I'm sitting in the car watching a stranger wave his arms around in our direction, I can't help but think how foolish it is to get so worked up over a few feet of space, over one spot up at a red light.  Which is exactly what I've done- not only today in this grocery store parking lot, but every day that I've sat in this seat.  I've judged and criticized and have acted flat-out mean toward my husband over something as trivial as his style of driving. 
This is not love, and I want to love.  So I'm going to close my eyes, in a peaceful sort of way.  I'm going to keep my mouth closed, and if he drives straight by our exit, I'm not going to be angry, I'm going to look forward to taking the backroads home.  Because when you love someone, you let them drive.  However it is they drive.  And you remind yourself that it's not about what gear you're in, or how many u-turns it takes to get there.  Love is about being in the car, about the trip you're taking together.  Even if it's just to the grocery store for ice-cream on a Monday night.