The worst backseat driver

What lucky ducks we are that in Manila, we can hire someone to drive for us.  It still doesn’t exempt me from surviving Freddie Krueger days when the driver takes a day off and I become solely dependent on my husband to take me to my destination.

 â€œOn the road again,” he’d sing while I sit on the passenger side clutching my seat belt.  “Don’t tell me you’re nervous again,” he’d tease.  I’d give him a curt look with eyebrows arched to drive home a point.  He’d laugh hard and rumble on, “Are you getting a tingling sensation under your armpit … again?”  Before I could react, he’d laugh harder and snigger, “I love it!”

My husband gets this weird serotonin kicks out of seeing me turn pale and gaunt.  It’s torture, pure and unadulterated torture.  How can I bop him or push him to the edge when he’s holding the wheel and there must be nothing in my demeanor to distract him further from his already distracted mind?

He has this excruciating (to me) habit of focusing his mind on ALL other things except on driving.  “Will you please keep your eyes on the road,” I’d insist, but it only makes him turn playful.  (The best way to describe it is to use the old-fashioned adjectives carefree and gay, in their true sense).

We’d proceed to cross EDSA with traffic lights blinking, another thorn, because you’d never guess why.  He’d position the wheels to run in the middle of the broken lines.

“Wha…Where you going?” I’d ask.  His reply? “Well, the other cars can’t make up their minds, so I’ll stay here until I make up my mind, too.”

It’s not a long drive, barely 10 minutes on an ordinary day; it even becomes shorter on weekends, but to me it was like driving for an eternity.  Try and hold your breath for an eternity.  Won’t you go berserk?  Deprived of oxygen like 20,000 feet high above sea level?

One time, we went to the geyser (hot natural gas) resort town in New Zealand called Rotorua.  The GPS wasn’t invented yet.  He took the wheel while I spread out the map.  He listened while I gave directions that I blurted a good three or four corners before the actual exit.  However, instead of turning the car to the right exit, he missed it and we had to make a U-turn some eight exits farther up the motorway.  What made him miss?  He was busy discussing a sales strategy with his marketing man.

When we finally reached the resort, we were two hours late.  The conference had already begun and we still had to unpack, change into the proper attire, and register.  The combined tension and anxiety resulted in gas brewing in my stomach and soon exploded with my lunch meal fully undigested.  It was gross.  What’s more, the acidity didn’t disappear even when I coated my stomach with boiled camote.

Another time, he insisted on driving our friend to the Melbourne Airport.  Even if he had gone back and forth, several times to the airport, I still had to cue him when the exit signs became visible.

Remember, take the Exit, three corners away, okay, huh…huh?

Now,  two corners…

Now,  1….

N-O-W, Turn! Turn!” He screeched and stepped on the breaks a good meter past the exit.

 â€œYou missed it!”  I cried.

“I did?” he said.  Not fully convinced, he turned his head to look behind, even adjusting the rear view mirror.

“Okay, okay, let me back up the car slowly,” he declared.

In the meantime, I had to put down my window to wave at the other cars behind us to back up a bit and give us space to go up the exit road.

Luckily, we were too far from the other cars to hear any invectives thrown our way.  The facial expressions, however, could not be denied.  My friend who was seated right behind me looked like actor Johnny Depp as Sleepy Hollow. 

“Are you all right?”  I asked.

He replied weakly, “Do you think I’d reach the airport in one functioning piece?”

I tried to sound cool and unaffected.  “You are still alive, aren’t you?”

“So, I am,” he sighed.

When I walked him to the check-in counter, he said, “Next time, kumare, allow me to take the airport shuttle!”

Who said drivers don’t have bad habits that irritate and distract other drivers?  Worst for those coming from inside the car.

In a survey conducted by an insurance company, the most annoying is to advice other passengers.  The polled result claimed that husbands make the worst backseat drivers (according to their wives) while mothers (and mothers-in-law or MILs) come next, with friends on the third slot.

Similarly, wives top the list (according to husbands), followed by paranoiac friends and mothers and MILs, last.

Children ranked the lowest, especially teens.  This explains why my children would rather snooze inside the car while we drove and debated.  When they grew up, they automatically retreated to the rock noise played in their headphones.                          

The biggest annoyances include:

A family therapist said that instead of criticizing “You’re going too fast,” say, “I’m feeling terrified, please slow down.”

Sound more positive.  If that doesn’t work, you can always try the ejector button.

Will someone tell me where it is?