There are a couple of things I suck at: laundry, urinating while standing up, anything involving rubber balls and sewing. Some things I’m bad at that I wish I could do better (math, knowing song names and artists and not just “that guy with the big hair and huge lips” and being patient) and then there are things I am good at that I hate. Driving for instance. I know the rules and can drive quite well; the task, however, is one I dislike. (My husband says it’s because stupid drivers upset my OCD and I go from “nice Sara” to “raging jackass” in a matter of seconds).
Yesterday I was late for a doctor’s appointment I had forgotten about and was perhaps pushing on the gas pedal a little more judiciously than had I been timely. I got behind a red minivan who, in my opinion, was going a bit slow. Perhaps I tailed this van more closely than was warranted and perhaps I was a bit angrier in my facial expressions. I am, after all, not a tentative driver.
We came to a left turn, and the driver ahead of me stopped, peered through his side mirror and then turned. My heart landed in my stomach and I backed off, crawling a mere 15 miles per hour behind the minivan. When we arrived at a stop sign, the red van in front and me behind, I pulled down the sun visor and slouched in my seat, not anxious to be recognized.
For whose face peered out the side mirror in frustrated annoyance? None other than my boss and new neighbor.