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Commentary
Could daughter be a chip off the old block?
By Mark W. Mayfield
'Why do you get so nervous when I talk about getting my license?" my teenage daughter asks as I drive her to school.
I glance at her with fatherly concern and recite my standard reply: "I get nervous because somebody who still hasn't mastered the skill of operating a salad fork isn't ready to operate several tons of fast-moving machinery. I get nervous because somebody who recently pointed to the gas pedal and asked, 'What does THAT thingy do?' doesn't fit my definition of an astute driver. I get nervous because I'm a loving, caring father who firmly believes that the minimum driving age should be 35. I get nervous because I don't want to sell one of my kidneys to pay for your car insurance."
As I lecture her, I exhibit perfect driving skills. I firmly grip the steering wheel with my hands in the 10 o'clock and 2 o'clock positions. I check my mirrors every 3.5 seconds. I maintain a safe distance between my vehicle and the one in front of me. I never exceed the speed limit. I pass slow vehicles only when I can clearly see into the next county.
"That's not how you usually drive," she says with a smirk. (She's right. I usually slouch in the driver's seat while loosely draping my left thumb over the bottom of the steering wheel--the 6:30 position. This arrangement frees the rest of my left hand and my entire right hand for other important driving duties, including turning the pages of the sports section, stirring coffee, clipping my toenails, and frantically pushing the presets on the radio until I find a station that's NOT playing a song by Britney Spears.
I also use my right hand for instructional hand gestures that convey valuable advice to fellow motorists.
"Whaddya mean?!" I exclaim. "My driving techniques haven't changed since I was 16, when I broke a state record for the all-time highest score on a driving test!" (That statement isn't entirely true. In fact, I was on the verge of failing the test until I turned to the examiner and said, "My elderly, housebound neighbor will be very happy when I can drive her to the park so she can sit in the warm sunshine and feed the pigeons. Her doctor says that the fresh air would be good for her. She just hasn't been the same since her husband went to heaven.")
"I know I'll be a much safer driver than you were," my daughter confidently says. "Mom says that you always 'burned rubber' when you were dating."
"Oh, you sweet, naive little girl," I sadly reply. "The '70s were a time of unprecedented turmoil, a time when millions of innocent teenagers like me were routinely victimized by ruthless parents who forced us to pay for our own gas and car insurance. What your mother casually calls 'burning rubber' was really a nationwide youth movement against parental tyranny. We didn't spin our tires for fun. We did it to draw attention to the injustice of 'The System.' We did it so future generations of teenagers would never experience such unspeakable cruelty. You should be thankful for the selfless actions of your fearless father, who wore out several sets of perfectly good tires while fighting for teen rights."
"Mom says that you burned rubber to show off," says my daughter, who obviously doesn't believe a word I've said.
"The Great Rebellion of '74 took a heavy psychological toll on your mother," I say. "She's subconsciously trivializing traumatic events to erase the pain of those horrific times. The poor woman needs professional counseling."
"So, Dad, how did the 'The Great Rebellion' end?" my daughter asks with mock interest.
"We lost," I reply. "Teenagers still have to pay for their own gas and auto insurance."
Mark W. Mayfield (himark@firstworld.net) doesn't really clip his toenails while driving.
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Saratoga, California Since 1955
