Repressed in a Volkswagen

On the road of life, there are passengers and there are drivers.

Volkswagen should have kept that slogan. It is brilliant. The funny thing is, so many of us are in denial about which one we really are.

Okay, I’ll be honest. I lie to myself about my actual seat assignment in a VW.

On the real road, I'd like to think I can be whatever I need to be. I make a great driver. I make a great passenger. I don’t fight for either spot, and let the other person take their preference. When I’m driving, I take charge of the wheel, and yet still listen easily to advice from the passenger, who I view as competent and helpful. When I’m passenger-ing, I enjoy the scenery and trust the driver, offering directional assistance when the driver wants it.

Some people always have to drive. They get really nervous and hold onto the handle in the roof of the car and press against their imaginary brake. They mumble the better way to find a parking spot or navigate through downtown. They just look uncomfortable riding. My life is much smoother if I just let these people drive.

Some people always have to ride. They ask you at every intersection which way to turn. They fret about traffic and tailgaters. They complain about the way the vehicle handles, and how it impedes their driving ability. They just look uncomfortable driving. My life is smoother if I just let these people ride.

On the real road, I do what needs to be done. I fill the spot that needs to be filled.

Oh, how I wish it were like that on the road of life. On the road of life, I am a horrible, terrible, annoying and over-the-top back seat driver.

I’ve been telling myself for years that I am a passenger on the road of life. But it is a lie. A bald-faced lie.

How do I know this? Because I give unwanted advice. It is an embarrassing compulsion. I feel like I can’t help myself. I foam at the mouth giving those metaphorical drivers tips and directions.

I eavesdrop on conversations at the grocery store, in the line at the post office, in my social circles. I almost always feel the overwhelming urge to add my two cents. Oh, I know where that street is. You know, it was the antibiotics; live culture yogurt will clear that right up. It doesn’t remember your password because you probably deleted your cookies. Could it be painted leather? That stuff makes you sweat every time.

What in the world is my problem? I’m a back seat driver, that’s what. And maybe a sidewalk driver, if there is such a thing. I try to yell directions and driving tips to people as they drive by my little pedestrian self. I don’t even know these people.

Somewhere deep inside me is a driver trying to get out. I’m not letting him. I am cramming him back in, and telling him to sit still and take in the scenery. That driver has needs, and if I won’t let him drive, he’s determined to feel useful and important by telling everybody else how to drive.

Since I figured this out, I bite my tongue when the compulsion to offer advise rises up in me. I tell my little driver, okay, okay. Let’s go for a drive. I’ll take the wheel, already.

I have a friend who’s stepfather is brash and oppressive with his unwanted advice. I told my friend my revelation about myself, and he agreed. Yes, his stepfather never got around to doing anything in his own life, even though he knew how. He had a new empathy for his stepfather, how he had hog-tied his inner driver so that only his mouth could move.

Forgive me if I start to foam at the mouth over your personal problems. Please overlook my frailty if I spout solutions like I am the know-it-all guru. You can tell me to take a hike. Or better yet, take a drive.