Scene: I am driving Finn to drum lessons. All four of us are piled in the van heading down the interstate at the height of rush hour. Porter, who wants to be a sniper but who would be much better suited to a career as a local spokesperson for the local NPR affiliate, begins his customary running commentary.
Porter: “It’s 4:40 o’clock. We’re going south. Now we’re going southwest. Now we’re going south again. It’s 44 degrees and Mom, you are driving 70 miles an hour.”
We continue to drive. Suddenly I notice a car zooming up behind me. It’s a sporty car. No doubt the driver does not like being caught behind a minivan in the left lane, but I cannot move over.
Porter: “There’s a bulldozer! And there’s a sign that says you can drive 60 miles an hour. There’s another one that says ‘slow down!’ Mom! That sign says to go 55 miles and hour and you are going”
(he peers through the seats at the speedometer) “MORE than 70 miles an hour! That’s against the rules!”
I ignore him. The sports car is on my bumper, and as I look in my rearview mirror, I see that the driver has taken both hands off the steering wheel and is apparently twisting her hair into a complicated braid on top of her head. Her car starts weaving in the lane. My hands get sweaty, and I still can’t move into another lane. In an effort to avoid being rammed by the hair styler, I speed up.
Porter: “Mom, now you’re going over 80! You’re only supposed to drive 55! I didn’t know this car could drive this fast! You’re going to get in trouble! Why are you driving so fast? ”
Me: (through gritted teeth) “Because I don’t know any other way to get this f*cker off my ass.” Oops. Did I say that out loud? I cringe and wait for the response.
Porter: “What? I can’t hear you.”
Me: (Oh Merciful God in Heaven!) “Because I can’t get by this trucker to pass.”
Porter: “Oh. Well, you’re still speeding.”