I drove home beside an idiot the other night.
Mr. Middle Age Crazy was scooting along in his expensive, imported convertible thinking he was the cat’s behind. His four grey hairs were blowing in the wind, the sun was on his face and he was showing the world that he could get approved for a loan big enough to buy him the overpriced tin can he was riding in.
I was in the right lane, he was in the left. But he wasn’t going any faster than me and in fact, he was staying exactly in my blind spot. I couldn’t get out around the slower traffic ahead of me because of him. There he cruised, feeling good about life. I sped up, he sped up. I slowed down, he followed suit. He noticed me swivelling my head around looking at him and mistook my “what are you, an idiot?” expression for interest in him in his stupid, impractical set of wheels. His smile got wider and he slicked back his four hairs so as to look his very best. Meanwhile, my thoughts ran somewhere around, will this KNOB ever get out of my way?
Which all just goes to prove that just because you have an expensive car doesn’t mean you’re cool or you know how to drive and it is futile to think you can read someone else’s mind.