Riding the Bull

And they wonder why I stress? The driver’s seat adjustment in our old truck is broken. Apparently no one thought to warn me. It’s the only vehicle left in the driveway and I have a doctor’s appointment. For stress, no less. As I’m driving up the street, whipping back to front to back to front, I realize the seat won’t lock into position. After a few vain attempts to secure it, I switch to survival mode, which requires nothing less than complete concentration, using the steering wheel both for steering and to maintain seat position. Too close, and my knees are in my face, my nose shmushed into the front window. Too far back and I’m driving with my big toes. I’m like a human accordion. I consider barefoot, with the thought that I’d have minimally better control. Maybe- if I was a monkey. Biggest challenge? Making a turn. Slowing down throws me forwards, but accelerating out of the turn hurls me backwards, pasted to the seat by centrifigal force. Unable to pull myself forwards with the still-turning wheel, I can’t reach the gas pedal. I’m practically in the backseat, neck, arms, legs- and toes- outstretched, the truck rapidly slowing to a crawl until I can lurch forwards, find the right balance, and finally step on the gas. Hanging on for dear life, hunched up against the dashboard, I look like a possessed woman, trying to make an escape in her pickup truck, going 40 mph…15 mph….40 mph…15 mph…

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