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How quickly can I start my family of future chauffeurs?

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Lately, I find myself having full-blown rage fits while driving. I scream the sort of profanities that would only make my deceased, teamster grandfather proud. I furiously change lanes to drive around someone who is going 35 mph in the fast lane to notice that, ironically, the car's driver is elderly. As in, extremely old. Like so old, that they are hunched over and can barely hold their head to see above the wheel. That old.

Once I realize that it’s an elderly driver, my guilt sets in. How would I feel if someone called my elderly family member every single one of George Carlin’s “seven dirty words?” Maybe my shrink is right; I do need to meditate.

In an attempt to not emotionally beat myself up for swearing at someone’s grandparent, I try to think logical thoughts. Like, if this were my grandmother, I would be driving her around, so she didn’t cause an accident. Where are this driver's grandchildren? Why aren’t they making sure she is safe on the road?

It’s amazing how quickly I become the moral authority on elderly drivers. How do I even know if this old person has kids or grandkids? They could have been a self-proclaimed single person their entire life and cherished never having kids.



This is the point in my thought process where my own existential crisis occurs.

I am a self-proclaimed single person who has no desire to have children. I will someday be the old driver going 35 mph in the fast lane. Some jerky comedian will be riding my ass and calling me the “seven dirty words.”

In that moment, I always wonder how quickly birth control can get out of my system so that I can start my family of future chauffeurs.

I just realized that I’m less afraid of becoming a mother than a geriatric driver. That needs to be mentioned in therapy.

Speaking of geriatric drivers, I saw an elderly man on the road yesterday. The only thing that frightened me more than his erratic driving was the giant dreamcatcher attached to his rearview mirror.

Thanks for broadcasting that you occasionally fall asleep behind the wheel, Grandpa! The only thing worse than someone who makes a Pittsburgh Left is someone who naps during it.

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