Monday, 10 September 2012

My man the maniac.

I could bang on about how great my husband is for ages.  I already have here and here.  He is a darling, gorgeous, generous, good lookin', largely unflappable man, with simple needs and a frighteningly detemined nature.  He is mostly gentle and serene.

But when it comes to driving.  He is a MANIAC.

What he thinks he's driving in.  (His dream car)

The reality.  (It's really very comfortable, and perfect for my favourite hobby, car pooling.)

On the weekends, there is a street near us that runs alongside a park.  This park is THE place for kids parties, family get togethers, end of season gatherings.  Every weekend, from mid morning to late afternoon, it's chockers.  And consequently, it's tricky to park there.  Cars line the street for a considerable distance from the park on either side, and it ceases to be a two way thoroughfare.  You have to wait, let a few cars come the other way, then take your turn.

Yes it is frustrating.  No it's not ideal.  But we are lucky to live where we live and it's great to see everyone out enjoying the sunshine.

Apparently not.

His method is to drive as fast as he can, past families laden with picnic gear, joggers, retirees out enjoying the sun, people with dogs, people carrying fold out chairs, pinatas and balloons, cars reverse parking into impossible positions, at 70KM/HR, not stopping for anyone, not giving way, coming frighteningly close to side mirrors, all the way up the street.

Why?  So we can be home 10 seconds faster? Maybe.  I've never been able to fathom it.  And I am too busy hanging on to the door handle with white knuckles.  I often close my eyes.  I don't want to see what we are about to nearly miss.

During netball season we were supposed to leave the house at 7:30am on the dot.  And we never did.  We are very bad at leaving on time.  I am sorry to all the people we are always late for.  And I offer no excuse other than that we're really bad at getting our shit together, especially early in the morning.

But the trip to netball every Saturday was excruciating.  Terrifying.  And during the 15 minute screeching, swearing, veering and swerving ride to netball we may have made up, what? 30 seconds?  A minute?  And I would lose at least 5 minutes off my life.  Sometimes I could offer to drive so he and Josh could get out for rugby, but those times were rare and he gets as frustrated with my driving as I do with his.  I am not decisive enough and don't indicate my intentions at the right moment.  Allegedly.

This, coming from a man who has a 50% indication rate on roundabouts, the other 50%, people just have to guess what we're up to.

And if we're ever going across the bridge to the city or to visit my sister, we take the scenic route out of our suburb, along the windy roads, down past the local harbour beach/park and up to the main road.  It's like a free roller coaster ride.  The kids screaming (Issy terrified, the older two love it) and me, (mostly) silent and speechless with fear, just waiting for something unexpected to happen that can't be adjusted for, due to our speed.

Every drive is an adventure.  And there's nothing quite like a fight about driving on the way to a family function is there?