Driving (me nuts)

We are off on a road trip today, up to Monterey to witness Stepdaughter #1's high school graduation. Stepdaughter #2, who has been a student missionary in Pohnpei, has just arrived home and we are also looking forward to seeing her.

So as I think about sitting in the passenger side of the car for the next 7 hours, one of the first images that comes to mind is that of Sam humming his little motivational tune while he scurries in and out of traffic.

It has taken time, but I think I'm finally resigned to the fact that although I have driven safely and without a ticket my entire life, my driving will never be good enough for Sam. When I pick him up from work and drive us home he moves between offering panicky advice, sighing in disgust, and making disapproving grunting sounds. It used to make me furious: my options are to either have a running commentary on my driving, or start the day in knots because of Sam's driving. We tear down the hill from our house like we're revving up for the Indy500, flying down the freeway at 80 mph, darting between cars, Sam accusing drivers who are more tentative of being "idiots" and impugning their motives. For a peace loving introvert like me, this is shocking and difficult. Unless I intentionally toughen up and remind myself that this is probably a manifestation of gender differences more than a statement about Sam's character or my supposed inferiority as a driver.

According to Bill Doherty at the University of Minnesota, men are socialized to fulfill three things: Protecting, Propagating, and Providing. I have added to this list, Problem solving, much to the glee and approval of my female students. Perhaps Sam feels that he is playing the role of protector, provider, and problem-solver when he takes over the wheel, although my received benefits do not correlate with his motives. Women are more nurturing and relational, which is why fewer incidents of road rage involve women. Men tend to be more competitive and take insults less personally--all as part of the game. Perhaps that's why some of the loveliest men I know turn into bad tempered race car drivers when they slip into the driver's seat.

The role of the radio for male drivers is also significant: it has to be on, and loud. After Sam and I got married, we took a 13-hour road trip up to New York to visit my parents. He had the radio on the whole way, but it was on the Scan function and for over 7 hours it scanned up and down the dial, lingering for a few moments on a few words here and a snatch of music there. I was a newlywed and didn't want to be intolerant so I didn't say anything, content to observe how it all played out. The effect of that radio on my mental state was not positive, however, and I finally asked Sam if we could turn it off. "Oh, yeah." Almost as if he didn't realize it was on. My father used to play classical music in the car, loud enough to make us feel as though we were driving along in a moving orchestra pit. Some of my earliest memories are of us kids falling asleep in the back of the car, my father at the wheel, peering into the darkness while a lone violin battled with static over the airwaves.

There is something else that I've noticed about male drivers. I don't know why this is, but both Sam and my father have added snippets of music to the travel mix whenever they try to do something a bit daring while driving. Daddy always had this thready, nasal whistle that he did through his teeth whenever he got lost. I always knew we were in for a meander through the country when he started to whistle softly, almost under his breath. Sam hums a gleeful five note motif whenever he is ready to dart between cars or maneuver us toward an exit from the fast lane. I don't think I could reproduce what he hums, but as soon as I hear it I know to close my eyes. That way, I become less upset with the possible calamities that could befall us as the car hurtles through traffic. I'd rather not know what hits me than to see the whole thing unfold into my lap. This little trick was learned from my friend who had tremendous conflict with her speed demon of a husband during their first years of married life. They finally worked it out that he would say, "Close your eyes, Shelly" and she would, taking a deep, bracing breath. It would be over and she would be spared the terror of wondering how her life might end. It also saved them from many a blow up about his driving.

So we are off today--in a cloud of dust, I might add. My offers to drive on these trips are met with an eye-rolling sigh and Sam taking a tighter hold on the keys. Maybe I will start singing "Libera me, Domine de morte in dia illa tremenda!" from Verdi's Requiem at full throttle or pull a paper sack over my head when things get a bit dicey. Two can play this game...