When I was three months pregnant, I decided to make life simpler and travel to work at ease. So I could read, munch, stare outside and get lost in my stream of consciousness while someone drove me to work. It was also meant to be relaxing after a day’s work.
The man in question (appointed through very reliable driver of so-and-so) was young, brash, and always late. We’ll call him Driver No. 1 (yes, there are more). The wiser older people said I wasn’t used to having anyone work for me. I had to give it time and loads of patience. Yes, sometimes I could read or munch but I was never relaxed. I gave plenty of holidays, money before it was due but I could never trust the fella to turn up on time. And he never proved me wrong. So finally I decided to rid myself of the menace.
Problem not solved though. I was still barred from driving and had to put up with whoever or whatever was going to come next. Enter Driver No. 2, again sourced through the aforementioned reliable driver of so-and-so. The newbie was always on time. He also always spoke at length about nothing in particular and could not stop himself from driving like a maniac. In addition to the above, he thought the sun rose from his nether regions. Since he was Driver No.2, I decided to swallow a whole lot and just put up with him, tide through the months. Somehow we got to June, three months away from D-day, due date, life-changing experience etcetra. Then came Europe (free wheeling holiday in running shoes with baby bump to boot). Mr. Driver meanwhile outdid himself in my absence. Screamed, shouted and left father-in-law with sprained leg stranded in the middle of nowhere. There was no real reason for the behaviour, except he was an asshole. When you’re having a baby, everyone will tell you to think happy thoughts, stay calm and breathe easy. With Driver No. 2, life was anything but. So, unpleasant as it was, I didn’t regret his exit from my life.
But I was still three months away from freedom. So the hunt was on and fulfilled quite promptly in the form of Driver No. 3 (who had the distinction of getting me to one week before D-day). Seeing as he lasted till the end you would think I was happy. I don’t want to be hard on the guy and I’m sure I was being too picky. But sometimes his driving made me want to holler in his ear. There was nothing wrong with him per se. He drove safely, was always on time, did not speak a word and was very well mannered. But god-oh-god why would you always follow the slowest-moving vehicle and then honk to almighty. Or go right up to the person wishing to turn and then suddenly realise you have to swerve your way through to go straight. I realized I’m no back seat comfort seeker.
So I counted days, to deliverance, to abuse-while-you-cruise routine, to driver-proofing my life.
To finally being able to drive my way on the highway.
P.S.: Driver No. 3 is still alive and flourishing as assisted ride for father in-law. And I have a new menace to deal with. He’s a whole other story. Wait for it.