I've been logging many miles on the minivan in the last couple of weeks. My longest drive of the day, from our house to the swim club, is along a stretch of tollway with only two lanes. And for some reason, the thing that has irritated me most since swimming lessons started up again has not been trying to keep Isaac awake on his way over to swimming, or breastfeeding Maren in the waiting room (often full of the adolescent male siblings of swimmers), or listening to the big kids whine all the way over and all the way back about how bored they are and how I'm ruining their summers. Nope. It's the darn slow drivers in the left lane. I get behind them, bide my time until I can stand it no longer, and then break out on the right to pass. Then, of course, the drivers decide to speed up, leaving me to either seriously gun it, or else brake and resume my former position when I approach a smaller car in the slow lane.
I think it's because I'm a girl in a minivan. A girl, driving a minivan, could not possibly be a gutsy driver. At least not in the opinion of someone who has this on the back of his truck:
At least twice in the last week, I've followed (and passed) guys with the balls on their trucks. But balls or no balls, it seems that most of the people I end up passing on the right are the drivers of large pickups, invariably men who feel like they own the road, and who might be threatened by little ole me. Whatever.
Get me a set of balls. I'll strap them on the back of my minivan and blast them all off the highway.