The Authentic Eclectic

Put Your Pedal to the Metal; Joe Walsh Said His Maserati Does 185

So why are you going 30 mph in a 50 mph zone?

People tell me I have a long fuse.

Usually, they are people that have never driven with me.

I am patient and hardly find reasons to anger. Once I began my transformation just a few scant years ago, a Zen-like peace overtook me. I knew this settled feeling suited me.

It was some friends that really brought it to my attention.

Happy Hour with my neighbors involved beach chairs on our driveways, cocktails, and great conversation. My grandson, Ian, was the shortest member of our clan and possessed substandard speaking skills. The competition kicked in once some of my friends were well into their 5th or 6th drink. Then, everyone had a similar unclear vocabulary. Ian was 3 years old, though.

These nights were a great reprieve and a way to relax and catch up at least once a week.

Because I was the only one obligated to take care of a young human, I would limit myself to 2 drinks. By the time I would finish them, it was time to pack up the Little Tykes Basketball net and Big Wheel. We’d be the first to head inside our home since bath time, and a book was our nightly routine.

And so it was that my freshly poured first concoction was kicked over by Ian who is technically part toddler and part bumbling golden retriever. There was no malice or ill-intent, and I simply scooped up my straw, lemon wedges, and the ice from the driveway. I walked through the garage to get another drink from my kitchen.

Within seconds I returned to sit back down on my favorite nautical blue beach chair. I was ready to relax for one of my much revered, coveted, ad hoc friends’ therapy sessions when the 12 oz thermal plastic cup went tumbling. Ian just wanted a hug.

I repeated my routine and held on tight to the third fresh potion.

I announced that I would only have one that night; God willing, I would have one.

And that’s when I realized they were staring at me.

What? I asked.

My self-conscience side took over. Within seconds flat, I made sure none of my body parts were peeking out, and my nostrils were free and clear of any hangers. I checked to see if I had a mysterious case of body odor that onset without awareness. It’s not easy to surreptitiously sniff your armpits, but I have mastered this feat.

You didn’t miss a beat! Two times in a row? You never raised your voice. You have the patience of a saint.

Why, yes. Yes, I do.

I realized they were right. It wasn’t normal to react with a non-reaction. I should have, at the very least, shown a sign of annoyance. But I didn’t. Accidents will happen, and nothing could undo what occurred. Replacing the drink and getting right back in the conversation was normal to me.

I was not looking for a pat on the back or any kudos. They would understand if they lived under my roof that minor inconveniences are all in the course of business for me. None of them have small children in the home or grandchildren.

They have not yet learned that taking a backseat to anger and frustration becomes a default behavior.

Nothing really matters, and life is too short to waste on something trivial.

There is one area of life that I fear I will never deem trivial, however.

This area always reveals the chink in my armor, a missing feather from my angelic wings, and challenges my saint-like patient image. I have been tweaked enough to write about it.

I am not patient with the people who drive like morons.

There, I said it. I feel my blood rising to the surface already.

Twice I have written about the lunacy of drivers who have no right to abuse their privileges.

Once, just a short form allowed me to release my angst.

And then, I had a need to document and share my stellar moves during a traffic jam. Driving to New Jersey, 1000 miles away, is most challenging in the State of Virginia.

Yes, I know this short fuse issue exists in me. Yes, I am slightly embarrassed.

But, you know who should be mortified? Them. They should be filled with shame. It is my duty, as a self-appointed safe driving instructor, to inform them of their shortcomings.

The drivers who coast along, under the speed limit without a care in the world, in the far-left lane, need to know the error of their ways. This lane is known as the speedy lane for the sure-footed drivers, who know where they’re going. They are the only drivers permitted to use this lane.

This is not the place for the short-sighted, rude drivers, who lean back and act as if I am not rapidly blinking my high beams at them to get the hell out of my way.

It was in this very lane, the one where I have had to stare people down and wildly gesticulate (in a firm, but kind, teaching kind of way) that they don’t belong there. The longer they ignore me, the longer my list of complaints becomes.

• It’s called a blinker, you know.
• The shoulder on the far right is for parking. Feel free to move over there.
• Are you on your phone? Your phone?
• That lunch looks good, a shame you need a hand to drive, not just your knees.
• Your mascara can wait for the red light, can’t it?
• Do you even HAVE a license?

This lane, my favorite far left lane that I have earned the right to use due to my laser focus and exceptional driving skills, was occupied by a beautiful Maserati directly in front of me. By the second mile of offering my usual tyrannical advice about not maintaining 30 mph in a 50 mph zone, I reminded them about the second verse in Joe Walsh’s lyrics in “Life’s Been Good”

My Maserati does 185 I lost my license, now I don’t drive I have a limo, ride in the back I lock the doors in case I’m attacked

Joe disclosed the power of a Maserati and even lost his license because of it.

I’ve known this for years, moron. Can you drive like it has power? Ever?

My voodoo eyes, wildly waving hands, or scary rendition of Joe’s song must have done the trick. I believe the driver got the point and learned something from me. There’s a reason I am the Queen of the Left Lane.

So, of course, there was a happy ending to this tale of woe.

The Maserati moved, without warning to the center lane so he, indeed, could make a last-minute right turn off the highway from the center. No turn signal.

He must have run out of blinker fluid.

I’ll let him know next time I see him.