Tourist Trap

I mentioned a couple days ago that I was driving Deputy Dad’s truck ’cause my car was in the shop. Why is it that driving someone else’s vehicle is like visiting a foreign country, where you know neither the language nor the currency exchange rate? I mean, I’m a smart gal, I’ve been driving for oh, [hrmph]-teen years or so. So, why do I get in my hubby’s truck, which I actually HAVE driven a few times before, and all of a sudden I’m like a senior citizen, weaving back and forth in the left-hand lane, with my right blinker blinking “Stupid, Stupid, Stupid,” and the windshield wipers swooshing at full speed?

I just don’t speak the language. How do you say, “Turn off the damn wipers” in GMC? ‘Cause I think? What I ACTUALLY must have said? Was “Make me look like I’m learning to drive a stick-shift when I step on the over-sensitive brake.” Yep. I’m pretty sure that’s what the truck HEARD, anyway.

And when we picked my car up from the shop, as I walked away from tour-de-GMC, I’m pretty sure I saw Deputy Dad’s truck roll its headlights and mutter, “Damn Foreigner.”


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