I love my car.  For those of you who know me, I REALLY love my little VW Beetle.  It’s a happy shade of yellow, not an ugly taxi cab yellow or pale shade of lemon yellow.  It’s reminiscent of a smiley face with a black convertible top.  It’s the kind of car that makes people shout to you at stoplights that they love your car or that it’s their dream car.  It’s that good.  I wish, however, that I was as nice as my car would make me seem.

I’m sure that when people look at my car they’re thinking, this person must be as happy as the yellow.  She must be happy go lucky, kind and sweet to match the car.  They couldn’t be further from the truth.  Particularly if they’re the kind of person that likes to break traffic laws and etiquette.  Like, turn signals before brakes.  Let me say that again.  Turn signals BEFORE brakes.  The signal signifies that you are preparing to put on your brakes to turn or get over.  It’s a fairly simple devise on the left side of your steering wheel and not that hard to remember.  When the turn signal comes on AFTER the turn, or not at all, I no longer behave the way my car looks.  Nice sunshiney words don’t come out of mouth.  I’ve been told by others that the driver can’t hear me, but I’m sure they can see me gesticulating.

Oh, and because the car is yellow and happy, please don’t assume that cutting in front of me will not concern me.  My car may look like a hippy bug, but I assure you I am not.  Please use your turn signal to let me know you would like to get in front of me and I will gracefully let off the gas to let you in.  Don’t signal and there’s no way in hell you’re getting in front of me.  I am the consummate rule follower who awards fellow rule followers and punishes non rule followers. My car may be happy, but I’m not.

Can we talk overly large pick up trucks with something to prove?  I mean like they’re compensating for something?  It gives me great pleasure to use my little turbo engine to race them or box them in when they’re being obnoxious.  Yes, this grandma knows how to box someone in, so if you’re going to break the rules, go 55 in a 45 or zip in and out of traffic, this friendly little car is going to race you or box you in.  At least race you until I hit the speed limit and then you can ride off spewing your fumes looking like a fool.

It’s a bit of an oxymoron I’m afraid, this rule following grandma driving something that breaks all the rules.  At my age and status in life (if you believe teachers have status), I should be driving some nice conservative black or white SUV.  But SUVs are boring (no insult intended to all my lovely friends who drive them), and while I am an introverted rule follower, there’s nothing that says my car has to be.  Having the opportunity to something I would have killed for as a high school student is the best kind of choice I could make.  It’s like taking my husband to parties – I let the car do all the talking for me.  Only sometimes it appears a little too nice.