As my readers are
among the most informed of the citizenry, you are no doubt familiar with the 10
and 2 rule for hand placement on a steering wheel, while driving. Left
hand at 10 o’clock; right hand at 2 o’clock.
I recently read where that has now been changed to 9 and 3 because of
air bag deployment injuries. As I try to
complete all tasks in the optimal, efficient manner, I specifically watched
where I placed my hands when behind the wheel of my snazzy Sonata. My rule, while it works for me, is not as
succinct as 10 and 2; mine is left knee and 5.
Not an easy thing to yell at someone navigating the Pennsylvania road
system for the first time, in the dark.
Not that I would do that. At
least not again. Sorry, Christopher.
While my hand placement
may not work for everyone it works for me quite well. I only need to have one hand on the wheel as I am a very good driver and not in the 'Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man' sort of way. I am skilled at navigating our nation's roadways with my right hand at 5 o'clock. I need, do you hear me, NEED to have my left
hand free to perform any number of motions from gesturing (both Christian and
not so) to directing the imaginary orchestra playing through my synced Bluetooth iPhone
situation of some sort, according to the 11 year-old who sold me my car.
Outside of the
conducting, there are other moments of necessary choreography such as snaps,
claps, nose scratches, hair touch-ups and the like. Now I don’t do any actual movements that
would take my eyes off the road, no matter what others may say viciously behind
my back (Will and Matt and, after last Thursday night, Chandra and Alice). Lies, I tell you!
In these times, it
is sadly more common than I would like to see many of my fellow motorists
driving while do all manner of inappropriate things. Like the young lady who was semi-successfully
navigating Highway 101 beside us as several friends and I made our way into The City for dinner and
a show (Beach Blanket Babylon. It was
completely over the top. Go see it!). Like other multi-tasking trailblazers, this
modern-day Sacajawea was attempting to flat-iron her hair and drive. Don’t get me wrong, her flat-ironing skills
were not in question; she was doing
her hair. Her ability to operate
semi-heavy machinery (her Corolla was bigger than a bread box but only just)
whilst hair-doing was not as strong. I
daresay she is the intended audience for some of those ridiculous instructions
you find on items such as “Do not use in the shower” on a blow-dryer or “Not to
be eaten while seated on a toilet” which I have had to handwrite on all food
containers in my home. And speaking of toilets...
One of the
downsides of a life history is a sense of familiarity that breeds not only
contempt, but a casualness that I find off-putting, at times. Case in point, I was cooking last Saturday
and after fending off an overly curious volunteer food taster, I realized that
my house was quiet; calm before the
storm quiet. Having a 72-year old
toddler at home, I know the need for oversight so I wandered toward his
bedroom, under the guise of dusting, to uncover the activity to which he was
up. To my horror and regret, I found him
seated on his throne, as it were. With
the door open as wide as the great outdoors, and twice as fragrant. I swallowed all my sarcasm and disgust and
said, very politely I might add, “I’m just…going to…um…yeah” as I shut the
door. Moving very slowly and specifically as to not
agitate the molecules in the immediate vicinity, I metaphorically fled back to
the kitchen. I would have been more
verbose but withholding that much judgment takes a lot of effort, y’all.
Did I forget to mention that my sister had a classmate in high school in Texas who had a curling iron that ran on butane? No? Well, that's a story for another time.
And that is all I’m
saying.
No comments:
Post a Comment