| Hey, Stupid! Where'd You get Your Licence by Marlene McCarty |
| Do you cringe with embarrassment when another vehicle pulls up beside you and Other Half? Do you wonder if the person in the other automobile poses a threat to your immediate sanity? And by threat I mean, is the driver female? Is the person a different race or colour, or been blessed with a faster or more expensive auto than Other Half? Or, more than one of the above? If the answer is more than one of the above, I know I'm in for an earful. Should the person be female and—God forbid—racially different from Other Half, there follows an astounding one-way conversation which unfortunately I have the honor of overhearing; and the gist of which, I won't bother going into. If the other driver happens to be male and fit any of the other above categories, conversations are sometimes mutual, much more vehement, and often accompanied by rude gestures involving middle fingers and loud, ominous gear shifting. If the enemy vehicle leaves Other Half biting the dust and stewing in his own juice, he responds with a timely parting shot: "Hey, stupid! Where'd you get your licence, you . . . son of a . . . " Why is this? What makes otherwise seemingly non-racist, non-sexist, even tempered men turn into turnpike tyrants? After pondering this matter and failing to come up with a rational rhyme or reason, I decided to go to the horses mouth and find out just what these roadside rowdies had to say for themselves. The answers, although somewhat surprising, provided a glimmer of insight—but no real sympathy—into the rationalizations directing the minds, and subsequently the actions, of these mouthy males. "It feels good," said 19-year-old Billy. "It doesn't hurt anyone; and besides, It's a male thing." Can't get a more classic answer than that! "Well!" huffed Brian, who at first denied ever exhibiting such behavior until prompted by his wife to tell all, or she would, "These people shouldn't be driving." When asked who these people were, he accused me of trying to intimidate him! Colin, a beautifully dressed man with an air of total gentlemanly behavior, sheepishly admitted that behind the wheel he becomes a complete moron. He tried to explain: "It's an ego thing . . . I just hate to feel that someone else even thinks he can get the better of me. If I feel challenged—that's it! Even if I know the other car makes mine look sick, that driver has to be put in his or her 'place'." Regardless of race, colour or age, most men refused to give a straight answer as to why they seemed to be more obnoxious toward women and\ or people racially different from themselves. Instead, they pretended astonishment at any such suggestion; although, in most cases their female partners assured me that this, in fact, was true. Brian, who did eventually admit to such behavior, feels that his car has become his last safety shield. "Since now," he explains, " it's politically incorrect and downright dangerous to express—in public and most certainly on the job—any statement which may be interpreted as racist or sexist, I see my car as kinda like a safe haven where I can let go; say what I want." Whatever their justifications, the fact remains that a high number of men become aggressive animals on the highway, and one thing's certain: women who drive with them bear the brunt of these verbal assaults. What do we do? Their answers were unanimous: we should shut up and let them drive; or, if we don't like it—get out and walk! In a couple of weeks Other Half and I go on vacation. And for three weeks I'll sit beside him. This year I've decided not to waste my breath warning him of what I'll do if he starts his usual antics. Instead, I've done something. So, if you drive up behind a car with a bumper sticker that reads CAUTION! EXTREMELY EXPLOSIVE HUBBY AT THE HELM; YOU CAN LEAVE BUT I CAN'T! Please do me a favor: either back off and stay behind, or pull up beside us and give him a big wave and a smile. I'll guarantee it; if he can't find a single person to rant and rave at, he'll go quietly crazy. Meanwhile, I'll sit beside him and purr like a kitten while telling him how mature and considerate he's become. Now don't get me wrong. We'll never see the day when men become Pollyannas on wheels, but if we smarter halves have to drive beside them, we must learn to save our own sanity—by whatever means we can. And, as we all know, there's more than one way to skin a cat. Even a crabby cat like mine. Happy driving! (c) 1999 Marlene McCarty |
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