what’s driving you?

I got my driver’s license on the day of my 17th birthday – as soon as I could, according to the laws of the state of New Jersey. I had been waiting impatiently for this event. I wanted to drive so badly. In the meantime, I frequented all the driving games in the boardwalk arcades and, for the length of a quarter, gathered a hint of the sensations of life behind the wheel. Today, 18 years later, one of the things I dislike most in the world is driving. For better or worse, whenever I can, I relegate myself to passenger. It doesn't solve my problem, and sometimes I wonder - because I have a bad habit of wondering things like this - if it's an analogy for something larger, but that's another entry... sort of.

I can’t stand spending my time in a car, isolated from the natural world and losing more and more faith in humanity. The Toyota Forerunner behind me nearly fore-runs me over, and the BMer convertible in front of me lazily misses light after light.

I especially don’t like driving these days since Baby’s little head is right where the seatbelt crosses my lap. I get extra upset (and I didn’t lack for upset previously, believe me) at stupid drivers – don’t they know I have a baby in the car?! Besides, I hate to break it to some of these idiots that they can drive like freak-a-zoids, but it doesn’t change the fact that they laid out money for a Ford Windstar. (hee hee hee hee hee.)

Regretfully, we’ve been car shopping lately. Car shopping is a sport. The dealers are truly skilled. They always see you way before you see them, spot you wandering amongst the family sedans and the used hatchbacks. They size-up. They circle, flicking the edge of their business card in their pocket. They come in for the kill. Apply smile---and … "How we doin’ folks!" Then, they see it. The belly. It wasn’t obvious from across the lot but now that they’re right up next to their prey, they can hardly believe their spectacular fortune. They gonna sell a car.

They talk about things we already know and other things we don’t care about. I count the number of times they use the word "family" and leave my back fixedly turned away from the army of SUVs. From the used car lot, notions blare in our direction through florescent stickers pasted to the windshields – SHARP! They yell. And EXTRA CLEAN! I feel dizzy. I want to leave here and sleep a very long time.

Speaking of which, several people have told me (one of them a car salesman) that they drive their kids to sleep. Whenever they can’t get the baby down, they pack em in the car and tour the neighborhood or head to the highway. While I understand the benefits of the soothing motion for some kids, somehow I am opposed to this method of managing wakeful little people. Maybe I’m afraid instead of dreams that send them meandering through dense jungle and sifting through sand, behind their veiny eyelids, they will see slick worlds that snake over smooth asphalt. They will wake not rested, but restless. They may grow up with a distorted view of the world, a world that goes by them so very quickly, out of reach, and within which they are merely passengers.