When I get in my car, it is for a reason.
I have places to be. Meetings to make. People to see. Errands to run. Songs to sing at the top of my lungs to relieve my stress.
I have important tasks that need attending, and everyone else on the road should know this.
There is a code of excellence I expect my fellow road companions to adhere to, and frankly, I just don’t know if everyone knows what they are.
I am a common white girl, and I am the most important person on the road.
When I get into my Volkswagen Jetta, I immediately plug in my ipod, put on my favorite Early 2000’s Pop Hits station, and make sure I have the proper song vibes to truly coast to my destination in nostalgic style.
While waiting at a traffic light, if it happens to turn green before I notice, please refrain from honking. I am most likely drafting an extremely urgent text message containing vital information like: what kind of sushi rolls are my favorite, if I prefer red or white wine, how I’m doing on my summer diet.
Or I am impatiently staring into the distance after regrettedly rereading the eighty messages I sent to my boyfriend that he still hasn’t respond to yet.
While en route, I may forget to put on a blinker or two when I’m switching lanes. Please allow extra room for this. I will unknowingly enter your lane and claim it as my own, and get extremely upset and flustered if you so much as give me an angry glance.
I am fragile, and so is this car my father bought for me.
If it looks like I am not paying attention to the drivers on either side of my vehicle, it is because my sunglasses are too big and cover too much of my face. I simply cannot be held responsible for my peripheral vision when I have dark brown bugeye lenses that are shielding my precious pupils from the sun’s harmful glares.
When I drive, I follow the mantra set forth by none other than the Goddess of Country music, Carrie Underwood. I don’t wear seatbelts, I let Jesus take the wheel.
Sidenote: I will also dig my key into the side of anyone’s pretty, little, souped up, four wheel drive, and then promptly carve my name into the leather seats. After, I’ll take a Louisville Slugger to both of the headlights, and slash holes in all four tires. So don’t even think about cheating on me.
And yes, sometimes I will hit things. It’s not my fault. I can’t see over my steering wheel, and even if I could, I can’t be held accountable for that mailbox post taking growth hormones and sprouting overnight, or that curb that miraculously appeared out of nowhere. I hope you understand.
Yeah. I’ll write you a check.
Realistically, I hit something because I was stuffing my face with food that I inevitably “forgot” I ate, so those calories don’t even count. That’s right, food consumed in the car does not count towards any dietary caloric restrictions. And if it doesn’t count, it never happened, just like that mailbox I hit.
Either that, or I was looking out the window and saw a gorgeous patch of grass that needed to be Instagrammed. People must know what I am doing at all hours of the day, or else they will think I live a boring life completely devoid of fun, filters, and friends.
And we can’t have that, now can we?
So, excuse me while I completely cut you off, forget to go on green, or run over your lawn. I am a common white girl, and I am the most important person on the road.