Day 45: Driving Under the Influence

Those who must not be named believe they know what I'm going to write about today. I have news for you, ladies -- I'm not that predictable! I'm going to write about it tomorrow.

This afternoon I found myself, once again, on the New Jersey Turnpike, a truly awful road. It's each man for himself, hence the near fatal crash caused by the guy in the car to my right who decided he wanted my exact spot and swerved over at high speed. At least I discovered a previously unknown rest stop named after Grover Cleveland, the 22nd and 24th President of the United States. I also learned that Grover was his middle name (his first was Stephen).

Here's a question: when was the last time you actually looked at a map to determine the best route from point A to point B? Between GPS and Mapquest, maps are practically obsolete. I don't think my kids even know how to unfold one. Heading north on the turnpike, I passed several alerts about congestion on the George Washington Bridge. In total denial, I decided the first alert must be old news. The second one left me feeling a tad uneasy. The third one worked like a charm and forced me off onto the shoulder to determine an alternate route home. Had I ever bothered to actually read the instruction booklet for my car's navigation system I might have been successful in finding a detour, but the stress of the moment proved too much and I found myself screaming obscenities at Vivian (the name we've given to the system's female voice) and pounding on the keypad.

If I'd had a map in the car, this story would have a different ending. As it was, a trip that should have taken two hours took three hours and fifteen minutes instead. I was fuming. In addition to decent pjs, I'm going to buy myself a road atlas for my birthday.

I've also started fooling around with cruise control, which strikes me as something that really old people do. I've used it several times recently in an effort to keep my speed down. I knew I was in trouble, though, when I attempted to decelerate by pushing down on the cruise control lever, effectively lowering my speed one mile at a time. I'm barreling down on the cars stopped ahead, frantically toggling the lever again and again, when I remember that there's something called a brake under my right foot. Wow. Cruise control is not my friend.

Since when did I decide that a car knows more about driving and navigating than me? Since when did I cede my brain to a piece of steel? Serious reality check.

Despite this, I'm still better off than the woman who sued Winnebago, claiming its cruise control instructions were unclear. Apparently she set the cruise control for 70 mph and went to the back to make herself a sandwich, only to crash a few seconds later. Can you believe the stupidity? Even worse, she won the case! The veracity of this story is the subject of heated debate, but still, it serves a purpose.

When we let machines of mass destruction take over for our brains, even if they're aging brains, driver beware.