Driving

I pulled into traffic with the Bluetooth talking to me.  The workday wore heavy on my shoulders.

A friend’s voice filled the cabin of the car.  I could glance over my shoulder, pull  into traffic, and head down Broadway without missing anything in the exchange.

At the red light, two bicyclists cut in front of a car passing to the west.  I winced; the narrow escape reminded me that I should focus on the road.  But my friend kept talking; I kept driving; and the sun shone into the window on my right.

I slowed for a man in a motorized chair, watching him dart back on the curb cut and head towards the restaurants on Westport Road.  The potential that I could be doing that lingers just behind me at all times, pushing me onto the  stepper, lifting my arms in the modified sun salutation, driving me away from the table.  Keeping thin, keeping flexible, keeping active:  These keep me on my feet.

I pulled into a space alongside the grocery store.  An SUV honked its drivers complaint.  My son has told me time and again that I’m the worst parker on the planet.  I studied the face of the driver of the massive vehicle.  She raised her hand in what I took to be a vehement castigation of my positioning the Prius so close to the line on my left.  I thought, Good grief, woman, you’re going to blow a gasket, and then I grinned and turned off the engine.

She jerked her steering wheel and headed for the lot to find a different spot to occupy.

It’s the eleventh day of the thirty-first month of My [Never-Ending] Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

parking

 

One thought on “Driving

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *