I came to the driving game late. It was only when the baby to arm ratio reached ‘not-suitable-for-the-bus’ that I had to concede, and get my licence at age 37.
Man, I hate driving.
Not everything, just – ya know – going forwards, and backwards (especially backwards), and traffic lights, and intersections, and other cars, and parking, and using the mirrors, and changing lanes, and getting the kids in and out of the one million carseats necessary because… idiot.
Anyway, that aside, there is one fun thing I have discovered about driving, and I think it has to do with my P-plates.
At first I thought the most fun I could have behind the wheel was driving my husband crazy when I park a million miles away from where we need to be just so I can NEVER, EVER do a reverse park – or simply to get one of the spots that lets you drive right through two spots, so that when you have to leave you can just drive straight out – no reversing. You know the ones? Carpark lottery.
No, the most fun I have will be short lived, for I feel that I soon as I graduate to a full licence the fun will stop.
Hormones are fun
P-plates are a red flag to the hormonally driven.
Car-loads of young dudes, young dudes by themself, even some pervy old dudes will maneuver and negotiate traffic when they see a female driver on their P-plates. End game? Who knows, I’m not sure what they think is going to happen once they get alongside their prey.
The discovery of this phenomena initially came at a price to my ego. I mean, how many times has a gal got to clock the look of pure disappointment on a young lads face, exactly?
Because that happens… a lot.
Here’s what I think is happening: Traffic is moving when the visual trifecta of a blonde, P-plater in a van registers with a car-load of fellow P-platers.
They must be thinking ‘BINGO, we have ourselves a surfer… or even better, the Holy Grail of pervey satisfaction that is a travelling back-packer.’
They duck and weave and negotiate traffic so that when the next set of lights appears on the horizon we will be side-by-side.
They approach, eager looks on their horny little faces… when BAM!
A pushing-40, tired mother of four with a car load of screaming kids and a pencil holding up her greying hair that HATES MOTHER-FUCKING DRIVING, DAMMIT, looks across at them with a ‘what-the-shit-are-you-looking-at-fucker?’ expression on her face.
Sometimes they stare, bewildered. Sometimes they zoom off. Sometimes they try and pretend they were actually looking at the awesomeness that is a 2002 Nissan ElGrand. Mostly they just look ripped-off.
At first I ignored these encounters – OK, that’s not true, I swore under my breath and muttered for the next few kilometres.
Not. Any. More.
Now I have found glee. Looking in my rear-vision mirror I wink; “You know what to do, kids.” I say.
WHOOP! It’s crazy time in Mum’s bus. The kids hoot, holler and wave at the lads. I give a little wave, myself, before yelling out; “Remember boys… use condoms.”
I’m pretty much sex ed’ing your teens.
You. Are. Welcome.
Tell me, how old were you when you got your licence?