This may surprise and shock you, but the other day, as I was
barreling down the freeway at exactly the legal speed limit, I
passed a motorist who had a book on his lap and was reading as if
he were in the study section of the local library.
This may surprise and shock you, but the other day, as I was barreling down the freeway at exactly the legal speed limit, I passed a motorist who had a book on his lap and was reading as if he were in the study section of the local library.
Of course, as a parent and teacher, I’ve always been a big advocate of literacy in any type of circumstance, but somehow this just feels wrong.
Maybe it’s because I’m the type of person who will be driving along happily in a straight line, glance down to change the radio station, and practically end up in another lane three states over.
Or perhaps it’s because the driver was getting through an entire chapter without being distracted by children in the backseat shouting, “She’s breathing my air!”
Or maybe it’s because I can’t believe that during all these years I’ve been busy in the car doing things like keeping my eyes on the road, I could’ve been catching up on my reading. As much as I drive, I could’ve been through “War and Peace,” plus all 45 books of Dana Fuller Ross’s “Wagon’s West” series by now.
Now don’t get me wrong. Of course I don’t advocate reading while driving, but if some one can drive 65 miles an hour and concentrate on a book, why can’t I do something mindless like, say, ironing? Or sorting laundry? In fact, now that I’ve seen that driving is possible without actually watching traffic, I can get all sorts of housework done on the road. Maybe even balance the checkbook or catch up on putting pictures in the kids‚ photo albums. And in real heavy traffic I could make the armrest into a little cutting board, chop fresh vegetables, and have a whole salad ready by the time I arrive home from the mall.
Oh, I know that getting behind the wheel can evoke otherwise sane people into extreme, bizarre behavior, but I must say this is the first time I’ve ever seen driving turn someone into a bookworm.
Take my friend Sandy, a soft-spoken, reserved woman, who volunteers her time at the local school and gives money to charity. However, once behind the wheel she shouts, “Hey, Doofus, quit picking your nose and hit the gas,” to any vehicle in front of her not taking off like a dragster the very second a light turns green.
Now, this I can understand.
And it’s not only Sandy. Behind the wheel, I also am no longer a petite, almost middle-aged, mother of two. I am a Honda – with good gas mileage and an overwhelming urge to be first. I’m not sure why I feel this way. Normally I’m not a competitive person. I don’t even like sports, but I think it has something to do with a primitive fear that if I let enough cars get in front of me, I will eventually end up back where I started.
Oh, deep down I know that this is physically impossible. But so, too, I had thought, was reading while driving.
I mean, I see where it could be entertaining and a big time saver and all that, but on top of the obvious dangers, I just can’t imagine explaining to a police officer that I forgot to stop at the red light because I was just getting to the chapter where the detective announces who committed the murder. Or telling my insurance agent that the accident wasn’t my fault, it was really the fault of, say, Danielle Steele.
So, even though I might be crazy to pass up the opportunity to better utilize my time, for now I’ll stick to driving the old fashioned way – with both eyes on the road.
