Guess What Happened Today?: Admitting Your Problem is Half the Battle

I've denied it for years. My lovely wife tells me I have a problem. Even the kids know it. My problem has landed me in trouble with the people I know and love, and with total strangers. It's even landed me in hot water with the law. Multiple times. I guess I may as well admit it... I'm a crappy driver.

There. I said it. I've been known to speed. I have occasionally viewed a stop light or a stop sign as a mere suggestion, and I have frequently seen a yellow light as nothing more than a challenge. I've banged into other cars, and they've banged into me. I've been described as a menace by the people I love. Even my dad feels like he has to comment when we're driving together..."What, you don't stop at stop signs anymore?" as I roll on through. Before she passed away, I was driving with my Mom one day and I did a patented Sean Slater dip-stop at an intersection. She said, "Oh, Sean, your dad wouldn't like that too much."

I've even been stopped by these guys. For driving in the wrong lane. Who knew?

To be certain, I know how to drive. I've even taken lessons. I've had my license since I was sixteen and I got it on the first try. I totally get the fundamentals of driving but I'm a multi-tasker and I'm always in a hurry. Before the angry mob arrives at my door, let me just say that I've never had an accident or a ticket while talking on the phone or texting. I've often gone for years without a ticket, and then I've had a flurry of bad activity that results in a renewed relationship with law enforcement.

A couple of years ago, I had such a flurry. Within the span of about 18 months, I got 3 speeding tickets, a red light ticket and a stop sign ticket. It's bad enough that this flurry cost me a bundle, but worse, it attracted the attention of both my insurance company and our government overlords. I arrived home from a Christmas vacation to find a letter from the Ministry of Transportation compelling me to attend a bad driver counselling session, and to prove that they meant business, they advised that if I didn't show up exactly when they wanted me to, my license would be suspended, toute de suite.

A view that I'm unfortunately accustomed to.

So I arrived on the appointed day at the appointed time to meet Dave, my counsellor. Dave was clearly bullied in high school and was now using his important role in the public service to exact revenge whenver he could. Dave spent our time together judging me, being as condescending as possible, and at one point, he even threatened to cut up my license. Heavy on the lecturing, light on the counselling. After an hour of berating me, he slapped a year of probation on me and warned me that he had better not see me back again, because if he did, he'd be compelled to use those scissors. I bolted, never looking back, but unable to shake the sound of Van Halen's Jump that was wafting from the ghetto blaster in Dave's office.

I knew I was in trouble when I saw Dave's ghetto blaster.

So I left there feeling appropriately slapped around, and hell-bent on not getting another ticket. My hands returned to the 10 and 2 position on the steering wheel, my phone stayed in my pocket, and I became a fan of my cruise-control. All good and on the road to recovery. Just as I was feeling like my rehabilitation was taking hold, and I was getting over the shot to my confidence and yes, even manhood following my visit with Dave, I arrived home a few weeks later to find that my insurance company had decided that as a result of all of this, I was just too big a risk. Cancelled. Awesome. Finding another insurer in a short period of time to take on all that risk...was not easy and was definitely not cheap.

So now, I'm insured again, and when the bill comes in it's like a monthly reminder of my emasculating visit with Dave. I'm trying to be better, and I have been (although definitely not perfect). Until recently, that is. I was out with my daughter Madeline, and I managed to slide into the back of another car in a rainstorm. The cars were fine, and so were all the drivers and passengers, but Maddie was furious. Even the other driver commented about her death-stare as he drove away unscathed, "Looks like you're in real trouble with her," he said. And I was. Now she flinches every time she hears that I have to drive her somewhere. Good times. In related news, my lovely wife will never, ever let me buy a new car, "...cuz you're just gonna smash it up anyway."