When you think you are cool… until you are not

Recently I turned 50. It is a thing and at the same time it is not, because there is nothing I can do about it if I wanted to. After all, I am alive for half a century which I find pretty impressive. One would expect some wisdom at this age…

Last week I was in the car on my way to an appointment. I am driving and increasingly annoyed with the slow cars in front of me. EVERYBODY (when annoyed the world is divided into extremes) drives at least 15 kilometers an hour below the maximum allowed speed. If we would have been in a snowstorm, gale-force winds or other terrible conditions, it would be fine. But the weather is fine. Normal. Nothing going on.

‘What is it with people!’, I grunt, ‘do they drive like this because otherwise their electric vehicles will not get them home without having to plug in? Stupid cars. Stupid technology. I like diesel. They should also put a minimum speed!’ I work myself up to an increased state of nuisance. Jaws clenched, hands tight around the steering wheel. Knuckles white. I am not joking. The ever calm and kind version of me has disappeared and I have turned into a raging driver of a car that is too fast for my own good. I am fighting the temptation to tailgate, light signal and worse, hit the car horn on my steering wheel (excellently placed for annoyed drivers).

What happened to simply driving at around the maximum speed limit?

I am fighting the temptation to tailgate, light signal, and worse of all, honk at the slow driving cars in front of me. This seems to happen more and more or is it me? What happened to driving at the maximum speed limit and not 15 or 20 kilometers an hour below that? Is it because otherwise your electric vehicle doesn’t have enough power make it home? What is it with people! Just f…. drive, get on with it!

Jaws clenched. Hands tight around the steering wheel. Knuckles white. No I am not joking. The ever calm and kind version of me has disappeared and I have turned into a raging driver of a car that is too fast for my own good. Inherited from my dad who also liked fast cars. I am a little surprised by my own fury, could it also be the pre-menopausal short fuse I have heard about?

When I drive back from my appointment the road is calm and smooth. I turn on some enjoyable driving music and at around the maximum speed limit I am comfortably driving home. This feels good, relaxed and up tempo.

At a traffic light I stop behind a fast looking dark blue car. Indeed it is. As soon as the light is green, he accelerates fast and off he goes. I smile: ‘I can do that too’, and put my foot down. My car is like a dog off the leash and shoots forward. At safe distance I stay behind the blue car as both our speeds increase: 80, 90, 100, 110, …, …, ….. ‘If only he knew there was a woman behind the wheel’, I think, and feel sexy, bold and feminine.

I stop to his left at the next traffic lights who turn green before I can look to my right to see who’s my fun speed partner (because that is what he is by now) on the road. This time I am ahead and he is following me. A similar ritual repeats itself. This is fun!

Then, at traffic lights again, the car stops next to me. This time I can look to my left. I feel confident and cool. The man in the passenger seat signals me to open my window. He looks cute and is a bit older than me. Maybe.. I open my window and offer him my flirtiest smile.

‘Don’t do that again eh!’, his tone is both serious and light at the same time. I know instantly he isn’t joking. ‘We are from the police’, he smiles. ‘Really?’ ‘Yes really’, and with that the light turns green and off they are.

As an old lady who hasn’t driven in years and is afraid for anything and everything, heartbeat in my throat and legs shaking, I continue my drive. Way below the maximum speed limit. All of the sudden I don’t feel this sexy cool vamp anymore. I am a 50 year old woman, with multifocal lenses, birds nest hair, wearing an old sweater in a fast machine.

That evening I have dinner with friends and I tell them this story, a warm wave of embarrassment going through me (could it be a hot flash?): street racing the police on a Sunday afternoon. 

Guess who laughed last… (it wasn’t me).