So, yesterday I revealed my issues with windshield wipers and wiper motor speeds, which reminded me of the most irritating car ride I ever partook in.
It was spring of 1999 (the ride was so irritating, I remember the year) and my mom, dad, brother, and I were headed to the airport to pick up my sister from a six month trip to Southeast Asia.
My dad had the windshield wipers going full speed during the very mild rain storm on our way there. Soon, there was no rain but the wipers were still going – squeaking across the dry glass at a rapid pace. (My dad has a bad habit of doing this – leaving the wipers going long after they’re needed. It’s maddening. Especially when the wipers start to leave muddy streaks making it harder to see than if the windshield were rain soaked.)
My mom was in the front seat wringing her hands while muttering, huffing, and puffing that we were going to be late.
My little brother was next to me whispering in my ear pointing out every time my dad would drift out of our lane, which was happening approximately every 15 seconds.
So, picture all of this happening at the same time:
- Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak…
- “Jack, we’re going to be late! Sigh, mutter, huff, puff. Jack, can’t you go faster? I swear, if we’re late…sigh, mutter, huff, puff.”
- “Drifting. Aaaaaannnnnnd drifting again. Oh, and we’re drifting now. Here’s more drifting. Guess what? He’s drifting again.”
15 minutes into this and I was about to lose my mind. I reached a point of sheer annoyance and aggravation that only my family can bring me to. And so I did what I always do when I feel this way. I started laughing. Hard. So hard I wasn’t breathing and tears were running down my face. It’s either that or let the pressure build until I pop a clot or an aneurism or something.
I’ve only ever been close to this irritated during one other car ride, which was mostly a parking fiasco that was largely beyond the driver’s control. But if I tell that story, the driver may never speak to me again and I like her. My family has no choice but to speak to me. That’s how it works with family. Suckers.