My car is a member of my friend group. Actually, I could really consider it my best friend, since it's been there for the ups, the downs, and every moment in between. My car is the place I cry during Finals week, laugh at my friends when they refuse to trust my expert driving skills, and blast Adele when it's just been a really, really long week.
My car is a sanctuary; most of my friends have sat shotgun or in the back seat for my many adventures that I decide to take just because I miss being behind the wheel. But I must confess that I am the best worst driver. That may seem to contradict itself; "best worst driver" is actually the perfect way to describe my relationship with my car.
I am not an expert driver. I am not the type of driver to correct other people as they drive down the road. I am not the driver who jams out to music loudly and dances any time that yellow light changes to red. I am not the aggressive driver who gets insanely aggravated over people refusing to use their blinker. I am not the mom driver who throws up her hand every time I have to brake for a stop sign. No. I am a unique mix of all of these in one. I am the best worst driver.
What does it mean to be a best worst driver? I decided to explain what it means to be a best worst driver in case others are suffering over trying to define their driving style.
When you first learned to drive, you were scared to go even 5 miles per hour above the speed limit because when you went the speed limit, your father started to freak out.
Once you started driving on your own, you realized that you're actually a better driver than 99.9% of the population.
When people ride with you, but they are not impressed by your excellent driving skills. (I mean honestly, that train wasn't coming down the tracks that quickly.)
You turn up the music and rock out, except when you're making left turns because obviously turning the music down helps you hear the turn better.
Or you turn your music down to yell at someone for not using their blinkers. (Life's greatest mystery will forever be why people can figure out how to use smart phones but not a turn signal.)
But once you're done yelling, you feel the need to calmly explain to the driver in front of you that the speed limit is not, in fact, five miles per hour.
Once you finally pass the slow driver, someone pulls out in front of you, and you immediately register their license plate number in your head to track them down and find them later.
And because all of these events have happened in a matter of thirty seconds, your passengers are looking at you like this.
And when you finally reach your destination, you think your parking is great, but your passengers see this.
But if I've learned one thing through being the best worst driver, it's that the truest friends will sit in your passenger seat no matter how many times they've been afraid for their life while letting you drive.
