I Can’t Drive 55

yellow camaro
Me channeling my inner Tawny Kitaen

FOR THE RECORD: if one is driving a yellow convertible Camaro, and if Joan Jett’s “I Hate Myself For Loving You” comes on the radio, it is physically impossible to drive less than 70 miles per hour.  This is true regardless of the legal speed limit, the street you are on, or if you are a dumpling-shaped middle-aged woman like me.[1] 

Such was the case as I drove to the Mercedes-Benz Center in Atlanta, which is serving as a vaccination center for the Pfizer pfaccine.  Thankfully, I was on I-20 where, traffic permitting, driving 70 m.p.h. is perfectly legal, even in a pull-me-over mobile like a yellow Camaro. 

I have owned this car since October, when in a quarantine-fueled mid-life crisis impulse, I decided to pass my trusty, reliable, and oh-so-practical Honda Accord on to my daughter.  My replacement car is the opposite of the Accord – obnoxious, impractical, and seriously fun to drive.

The car itself has been mad at me.  Since October, I have only driven it 1400 miles, even though it is my ‘everyday’ car that I drive everywhere I have to go.  Such is life in a pandemic: I don’t have to go much of anywhere.  Except for the drive home from the dealership, which was during rush hour traffic, it has never been on the interstate while in my care until Joan Jett propelled us forwards the other day. 

I could hear it saying, “Thank you!  What took you so long?”  This is not a car meant for stop-and-go traffic.  It’s meant to move.  Even 70 m.p.h. felt a little puttery. 

The built-in GPS is more polite than any other robot-servant I have.  Alexa, Cortana, and the rest could take a lesson.  She always says, “Please.”  For example, “In 100 yards, please make a left turn.”  She makes no assumptions that I will obey.  People who drive yellow Camaros don’t take instruction from other people well.  Neither do dumpling-shaped middle-aged women.  We’ve been taking instructions for half a century and we’re done with that noise. 

I got to the Mercedes-Benz Center without incident.  In case you’ve never seen it, it is an enormous, silver, irregularly shaped arena, home of the Atlanta Falcons and the Atlanta United.  You can see it from quite a ways off.  If you can’t, you probably shouldn’t be driving because it means you are either legally blind or as observant as peanut butter.  I ignored some of the directions of the GPS because I was going to the parking deck, and not the front door of the stadium.  She did not like me disobeying her. 

There were a lot of police officers and National Guardsmen around and about making the process work.  They were directing traffic towards the parking decks and away from the hoards of people walking to get their pfaccines.  My GPS wanted me to turn around, but I refused.  She said – and I swear this is true – “In 400 feet, please make an illegal U-Turn.”  That heifer wanted me to break the law in front of law enforcement and soldiers.  Thank you, but no, polite invitation or no. In the end, I got there.  I even managed to lose my car in the parking deck, which is no small task when your car is the color of the burning sun at midday.  I found it, though, and she politely took me home.  Until AC/DC started playing….

Me all Pfaccinated.

[1] DISCLAIMER:  This post is satire.  I am in no way, shape, or form advising driving at excessive speeds or contrary to the rules of the road.  If you do, and if you get in trouble or HURT SOMEONE, it is 100% on you, not me. 

If you enjoyed this and want to read more like it, visit Lori at her website, www.loriduffwrites.com, on Twitter, or on Facebook.   Her newest book, a Foreword INDIES Gold Medal award winner, “If You Did What I Asked In The First Place” is currently available by clicking here.

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