Driving Miss Scaredy-Cat

Last night I took a cab home from the airport, and had an overly friendly driver who happily told me where all the traffic pitfalls were before setting out on some convoluted short cut that probably would have taken twice as long if he hadn't been driving so fast. I've had madly racing cabbies, but this guy was insane. He also tried several times to initiate a conversation about the presidential campaign, but I think politics is a hot button topic anyway, best to be avoided, and even more so when the person who might be vehemently on the other side of the debate is tearing down the highway with your life in his hands. "It will be interesting," was all I allowed myself to say, as he started playing with the window next to me, lowering and raising it just slightly.

Here's the thing: even when I'm petrified (and usually it's more of an "oh-god-this-is-how-I-am-going-to-die" feeling, like I'm watching it from outside the cab), I can't ask the driver to slow down. Somehow it seems that if I criticize his driving I'll only anger him into being even more reckless. I know it's stupid, and if I'm really scared, I should spare the anxiety and speak up. Maybe I secretly like the danger.

Still he got me home in 20 minutes, plenty of time to unpack and change clothes and arrange myself on the couch before "Lost" started.