I’ve blogged about driving before. In fact, I’m tempted to blog about driving often. I restrain myself because there are only so many times people want to hear about how pot holes make me crave soup, pick-up trucks make me nervous about tornadoes (Which cars are always the ones that end up in trees after twisters ravage Oklahoma? You never see Volvos up tangled up there…), and dogs who stick their faces out the windows of cars make me smile.
I did have an interesting thought while out driving today that I thought I’d share, though. I was cruising down the freeway, Coldplay in one ear and my endless internal monologue in the other. It was raining and visibility was rather abysmal. I noticed a set of headlights zooming up behind me, all set to pass on the left. My mind was wrapped around other, more pressing problems, such as whether Washington D.C. was closer to New York or New Jersey, so I didn’t mind getting passed up like I normally do.
When the car finally drew up parallel to me, I noticed with disappointment that it was a silver Porsche. I said to its shiny little butt in passing, “Yeah, yeah, you’re fast. Try doing that in a ’64 Pinto next time and then maybe I’ll be impressed.” Honestly, being the fastest car on Highway 520 while driving a Porsche is like being the prettiest girl with the nicest shoes in the burn unit of a hospital.