ARD

I like to drive. Sometimes when I’m having a bad day, I’ll just get in my car and drive. Fast. I don’t need a destination. When I go places with friends, I don’t mind being the driver or taking long shifts in the driver’s seat. When Wonder Boy and I travel, though, he prefers to drive. It’s not a sexist thing. He gets antsy and bored in the passenger seat so really, it’s better for both of us if he’s driving.

There are some nice perks to being a passenger in the car. Much like a baby, cars are a wonderful place for me to take naps. I think it’s funny when we go past cars with TV screens playing to try and guess what movie people are watching. But mainly, I like to prop my feet up on the dash and enjoy the ride. (In my first car, I figured out a way to prop my one foot on the dash while I drove. It was manual transmission, too. Maybe not my safest move.)

Not too long ago, Wonder Boy got a new-to-him car. He loves it. He’s particular about what we can eat and drink inside the car and insistent that trash leave the car as soon as possible. I’m okay with this. Someday I will also be the owner of a new or new-to-me car and I’m sure I will implement some goofy rules.

With one rule, I think Wonder Boy may have gone too far. Yesterday I hopped in the car and started to prop up my feet, like I always do, and he was all, “Wait! I have something for you.” He pointed to the side panel of the car where an old dishtowel was sitting in the door. You know, that way I can rest my feet on the towel on the dashboard instead of directly on the dashboard. Because my apparently filthy feet will dirty up his car.