Road trips can be stressful

Grace Priddy
Not just another priddy face

The nip is in the air, and my truck heater is sputtering out warmth. It must be road construction season again.

As I sit idling in a cold Blazer every morning, shivering at roadblocks, I have a bit of time to reflect. Time to ponder everything in my life, evaluate my existence on this planet and desperately try to remember if I unplugged my curling iron. Not that there's any turning back now, though.

I stare into the line of traffic ahead of me and wonder why I forget every single morning to take the back roads. Then I glance at the trail of cars behind me and scoff that I'm 15 feet closer to achieving my goals than those poor saps. There's a sedan in front of me covered with bumper stickers. One is so faded out I can't read it, so I inch in closer to take a peek. It says, "If you can read this, get off my @$%!" I look in the mirror. It's too late now; cars have already inched in behind me. They'll just have to live with a six-cylinder boil on their rear.

I stare awhile longer out the windshield before I realize it's been 20 minutes since the rain stopped, and my wipers are still on. Darn it, I always do that. Maybe it's a woman thing. I think it is driving my darling crazy. I surrender the wheel to him and ride along in silence, secretly wondering why on earth he insists on driving an automatic transmission with one hand on the gearshift. Maybe that's a man thing, and they just like to "feel the power." Maybe neither of us is gender stereotypes at all. We could just both be nuts, in which case it's a good thing we found each other.

Road trips are hard on couples. It's tough to be a woman and ride in the passenger seat. Not for feminist reasons or anything. I'm no Captain Janeway, myself, but there's something ultimately strained about riding shotgun with your one and only, especially when it's your truck he's driving.

I start noticing the tiniest little things he does. The light's been amber for two whole seconds. When is he planning on tapping that brake? Come to think of it, how fast has he been going? This is a speed zone. But I can't just look at the speedometer. That's tacky.

I turn my head slowly, gaze lovingly at my dearest, and just when the moment is right, glance down casually at the dashboard and return to my position. Seventy. That's not bad. I should have trusted him. At least he didn't see me.

We pass a squad car down the road. I pretend to brush hair out of my eyes and watch the fuzz slowly disappear in the side mirror.

"Getting nervous?" he asks, grinning. Darn, foiled again.

"Hey, Grace, I was thinking we could just bypass all these cars before the next construction zone. Y'know, just knock three or four of 'em out of the way. I bet your bumper could take them. What do you say?"

I slouch down in my seat, embarrassed, and vow to stare straight ahead. Why didn't I drive? I wonder. Because if I had, we'd be going ten miles an hour in the left lane and braking for empty shopping bags blowing across the highway. Somewhere in my mind I have this image of our demise. He's holding my hand and telling me how much he loves me but that he just can't be with a woman who spends her life staring into the rearview mirror.

The light turns green, and we go. My grip on the door handle relaxes, and I reach across the gearshift to squeeze his hand. Maybe he does drive me crazy, but I can't think of anyone else I'd rather let drive me there.

Not just another priddy face appears every Wednesday. Grace is a senior in architecture. Her views do not necessarily reflect those of the Daily Egyptian.

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