BACKSEAT DRIVERS

I've been driving since I turned 18, and I'm waaaaaaaay past that age now (several decades). In all that time, I have not had a single ticket (okay, I've been warned a couple of times) and only one accident - and that was a spinout on an icy highway, with no-one injured except my car. I've driven across the U.S. to Los Angeles on Route 66 and back again. I've driven in driving snow squalls with zero visibility, wailing thunderstorms while passing trucks threw acres of water onto my windshield, sailed through the balmy climes of Texas and the wind-driven cliffs of Colorado. So I can drive, is what I'm saying.

What my husband fails to believe, however, is that I can drive the three minutes it takes to get from the Metro North railroad station to our home a few blocks away. He angles his head a la Linda Blair to ensure that no car is coming up our left side when making a right turn, even though I've done the check and am already on my way. His head is constantly swivelling to check mirrors and side views. He winces if I hit the edge of a high manhole and gasps if I make a swift turn to another lane. Most people would wonder why I deign to get in the car with him at all. Here's my answer: I feel sorry for him. If you're always worrying, always checking, you never know what it's like to relax and enjoy the ride. Then again, that might be his overall challenge in life.