Day 38: Driving "the Husband" Crazy

Today I got a not so polite request from the husband to stop referring to him as “the husband.” Apparently, this is viewed by him as detached and disrespectful and he’s . . . well, let’s just say he’s not amused by my cavalier attitude. Which is interesting, because it amuses the hell out of me. I tried explaining to him that while I mean no disrespect, I also want to distance myself from the implied ownership of the phrase “my husband.” He’s not really mine. I mean, as of right now I am the only person married to him, at least to my knowledge, but he was a husband once before so to call him mine is really a little misleading. Luckily for Jeff (a.k.a. “the husband,” “my husband,” “world’s most patient man”), this is not my most annoying quirk. I have lots of them.

His favorite is probably my inability to let him drive anywhere, including down the street, without assuming he needs my direction and counsel. I don’t backseat drive to be annoying (why don’t they call it passenger seat driving I wonder?) I do it because I think he’s a shitty driver. I’m not just making this up, our records stand for themselves. Jeff has totaled at least one car completely as well as any number of other, more minor accidents. He is not forthcoming about his driving record so I can only assume it is because he has wrecked somewhere in the neighborhood of 37 cars, but I could be wrong.

I know for a fact that he has gotten way more tickets and been pulled over more than I have. True, I have the lead foot in the family, but I tend to notice the fuzz before they see me. Also, I suppose I should disclose that one of the reasons I have not been ticketed much is because I’m a girl with boobs and I can cry on cue. Get an older smoky who feels torn between wanting to be my Dad and ogle the goods and it’s a guaranteed warning. So to be fair, I have to admit that I probably would have a few more tickets if it weren’t for some genetic talent. Whatever, you’ve gotta use what nature gave you!

It’s not just so much that I give helpful advice while Jeff is driving, I also will criticize, yell, and mock with abandon. “Oh, my God! Are you kidding me? You totally could have made that turn, the other car was still like 20 ft away, just give it a little gas and try to only use two wheels. That really helps with the tight turns.” Comments like this are not as appreciated by the hus--, I mean, by my beloved husband as I would think they should be. I mean, if I were bad at something, I like to think that I would be grateful for the helpful advice of a skilled partner. Just because said advice is delivered with mocking derision and sarcasm doesn’t mean it’s not valid.

When we lived in the city owning a car was pointless until the last year when Major Bramlett began teaching at West Point and needed to commute. I never drove, preferring the merits of a bright yellow car that pulled up for you whenever you raised a magical hand. Wondrous vehicles the taxi, smelly, but lovely for their sheer convenience. Seriously, is there anything better after a night out eating and drinking too much with friends than to raise your dainty hand only to have a carriage miraculously appear to ferry your drunken ass home? I wonder on what day God created the taxi?

Anyway, the car came late and it wasn’t until our unfortunate move to Leavenworth, KS in 2007 that I began driving. Being behind the wheel is a sport I adore. Complete control, speed, power, and solitude, what’s not to love? Judging from Jeff’s reaction, I’m guessing he doesn’t love it quite as much. Driving is a chore to him normally, add my big mouth to it and it becomes somewhere between the seventh ring of hell and the childhood of Britney Spears’ kids. I’m sort of a lot to take on a good day, add to it my derision and sarcasm and it’s a wonder he didn’t forcibly remove me from the vehicle somewhere between Kansas and North Carolina.

Eventually, that wonderful husband that I have bought and purchased in the state of Nevada and branded with a band of platinum realized that it would be easier to just give in and let me drive. After the first few battles he decided the emasculation of being ferried about by a chick was nowhere near as harsh as my continual commentary. We had less uncomfortable moments after he just gave in. Now he sits passively in the passenger seat and to his credit he never says a word. I can take an exit ramp at 80mph and he will look at the window and comment on the cloud formations. I’ll go off the road slightly when I happen to notice a particularly pretty hydrangea bush and he acts as if driving down the middle of the road is normal. I’ve taken ice at full speed, speed bumps at 50, interstates at 127 and he never says a word.

I am starting to think that being MY husband is not the joy I always assumed it would be. Maybe I am, in actuality, a huge pain in the ass. I mean, if it takes this much inner strength just to tolerate my driving, what else must he be enduring. We have lived together for five years. Is it possible I am not the joy I thought I was? Could my insistence on control in most things mean he is secretly plotting my murder? Maybe I’m not that bad. Then again, maybe I’m worse. Then again, if he’d just learn to drive, I wouldn’t have to keep trying to teach him myself. Oh, that husband of mine. For $250 and a trip to Vegas you too can own a husband. Just remember to claim him properly, definite articles are apparently a very big deal.