Last week I watched a BuzzFeed-produced short film for Hyundai that triggered the idea for this post. For the record, I am not being paid by Hyundai, and it is only a coincidence that a friend of mine worked on the commercial. That said, it’s cute as hell.
The video reminded that I’ve been meaning to write about that fact that it is impossible to drive in a car with your spouse and not want to kill them 30% of the time. So, 50.
Then yesterday R told me that he met a successful married writing team that does not drive in a car together, ever because of this same belief. Apparently the universe wants this blog post.
I’ve provided my share of relationship advice on this blog. I think I know how to communicate effectively, fight fair, and make a really fabulous standing succulent garden together that will die within two weeks. But I am here to say that I have no idea how to handle anything that goes on inside a moving vehicle operated by your spouse.
R and I are generally thick-skinned people who take criticism well (unless it is me about my outfits). Put us in a car and we are teenagers-on-a-second-dose-of-accutane emotional. I suggest he maybe consider using a blinker to change lanes – death stare. He suggests I maybe stop screaming at all the cars on the road always – I listen and scream at him instead. And that’s mild compared to the vim and vigor spewed if one of us suggests that other might be about to rear-end the car in front of us. I’d like a psychological study on the effects that being warned you might smack into another car has on the entire personality. I expect to get this picture graph back:
I think it might honestly be more worthwhile to say nothing and let the person/spouse actually rear-end the other guy. A mild accident on an insured car would probably be more pleasant than the I know that snaps if you go the warn route. That I know makes me want to open the passenger door and roll out like I’m in some alternate version of Mr. And Mrs. Smith where they can’t get any spy work done because they keep fighting about whether or not to use Waze. Instead I resort to the passive aggressive silent treatment. That’s the one where you say extremely little for the next 45 minute to an hour and then, when asked, report that, “it’s fine now.”
But this isn’t about marriage advice because for once I don’t have any. And to be honest, I shouldn’t need any on this topic. If we’re going to hit a car I should say, “hey you’re going to hit that car because you’re driving too fast,” and R should say, “Cool thanks for letting me know. Certainly don’t want to do that.” If I’m exhibiting annoying and/or dangerous signs of road rage R should say, “If you can’t be nice then you can’t drive,” and I should says, “You’re right. I can’t drive.” We’re driving a car not standing naked in a room and asking for approval over our entire person.
Hm. That sounds like advice.
Okay. I’ll try it out and report back. You do the same.
And then when it doesn’t work we’ll all thank god for Uber.