I’m just putting the obvious out there. Men can’t drive, plain and simple. I grew up with my Dad always driving the family. 1970s era automobiles lacked the bells and whistles of today’s cars and we were excited for an AM radio station so we didn’t worry about cell phones, texting or GPSs to distract us. We drove not multitasked when behind the wheel. Dad drove fast and liked to hit the hills hard to test the shock absorbers in the car. Living in a town filled with steep hills and cobblestone roads, drivers needed to be able to bob and weave to miss massive potholes and loose stones while navigating hills that had no stop signs (as was a sure indicator of rolling backwards down the hill). For fun, stop signs dotted the roads but they were ignored as a matter of safety. Where there are mountains, there is typically snow and that just adds another level of challenge to driving. With Dad as the primary driver in my life, fearlessness behind the wheel and the ability to avoid the obvious road rules in the name of safety created my initial perceptions of a man behind the wheel.
My brother earned his reputation as a Formula 1 wanna be after allowing his girlfriend to tumble from a car as he tore around a corner in high school. Erin went splat on the road and Jeff flew on before realizing that he was alone. Luckily she was unhurt but from that day on, we duct taped the passenger side door closed just in case he took to the wheel again.
As the older sister, I always got to drive when we had to run parentally-inflicted errands so my bias against male drivers didn’t deepen too much more as a teen. When my high school guy drove, inevitably something happened and they were forever getting into accidents, but we girls stuck together and avoided driving with the guys whenever we could. Nevertheless, what lay behind this series of driving mishaps and why did we only hear about the boys? Gender perhaps?
While dating my first (well my only so far) husband I began to understand firsthand the genetic correlation between poor driving and gender. When you can see inside the backseat of the car in front of you, you’re too close. Needing to wear a seatbelt to keep from sliding out of the car at each corner was my second clue to his questionable driving skills. Nightmares of dying at his hands as he multitasked behind the wheel surfing for sports radio shows at speeds not normally seen posted on signs consumed my 20s. After our second serious car accident (that whole red light thing slowed him down) I said enough let me drive. That didn’t go over so well so I started taking Xanax whenever we went somewhere in the car. Sleep or a drug-induced stupor made the rides a bit less stressful. Pharmaceutics became the treatment for gender deficits.
And now there’s my son, 16 and the proud owner of his first driver’s permit. It’s hard to believe that after just a few short weeks at the wheel, Josh knows everything about driving. What I see? A fearless lead foot who thinks a stop sign means coast a bit just in case someone gets in your way and yellow traffic signal means hurry up and go. Recently as he was driving us to visit family over the holidays, I glanced at the speedometer. 80! Josh, seriously? He shrugged and said no big deal, he had it. I popped a Xanax. Like father like son.
What have I learned after almost 20 years of riding shotgun? I’m probably addicted to Xanax and need rehab. Driving represents a means to an end, getting you from point A to point B. From my point of view, Point B is the hospital. Men can’t drive. It’s doesn’t take a rocket scientist to prove that, just get behind the wheel once with a man and you’ll know. When I finally end up at Point B, they’ll have Xanax to calm my nerves. Let’s only hope that the stretcher drivers are female.