I stopped at a yellow light. In most states, you’re supposed to do that. Not in New Jersey. Ever. I held my breath as I watched the truck behind me screech to a halt. My father watched too. He wasn’t going to say anything, but when I mentioned my mistake he added his two cents. Lately, I’ve been driving my dad since he’s been wearing an eye patch. It’s been a bonding experience. He loves to share his wisdom, and I love to listen to it (even if I don’t follow it). In the past month, Dad has taught me the best highway to get to the city, the best lane, the best bridge, the best side streets, which traffic lights to avoid, best parking garage, etc. The thing is — I already knew it, all of it, because I go to the same medical complex. So I end up saying, “Okay, Dad. I know, Dad.” I love it all, anyway. I love driving my dad.
That brings me to my poor daughter. She has to drive me around, since she has a learners permit. Like my dad, I am full of advice. I feel like my daughter sometimes has one eye on the road and one eye on me (Mom used her imaginary brake again!). I promise I will try not to use my imaginary brake, but it’s hard sometimes.