A
VOLVO REVOLT
With
cautionary trepidation, I illegally crossed the double-yellow line
today to pass a Volvo. This is not the first time for that risky
maneuver. It's like a tic or a superstition – I cannot be behind a
Volvo.
Warning:
If you drive a Volvo, or you are a fan of Volvo's, this blog may be
dangerous to your sensibilities, and I recommend you stop here and
visit another day. (If you're a friend of mine, and you drive a
Volvo, you're exempt – this diatribe doesn't apply to you –
you're already my friend and I excuse your one known foible.)
It
all started long ago – so long ago, I don't even remember how or
when. What I do remember is that most times when a random idiot
driver cut in front of me, or worse yet, a moronic, decidedly unfit
driver apparently lost recall of where the gas pedal is located,
causing me to slam on my brakes, I took notice of a recurring common
denominator. Volvo. Always a Volvo.
When
a huge back-up appeared for seemingly no congruent reason, I'd glide
by in the left lane, and approaching the front of the mess, yep, you
guessed already! A Volvo … in front of the pack, slowing down the
masses of more mild-mannered drivers, oblivious to what I had already
discerned – Volvo drivers choose Volvo, because they know they
can't drive. And they've heard Volvo's are built like a tank (true)
and will protect them from the rest of us, who actually understand
the rules of the road and stifle our fears while maintaining full use
of our brains.
After
endless encounters with these 'tank' tormenters, which by the way,
are mostly unattractive vehicles as well, I developed the odd
idiosyncrasy of simply avoiding them. Pass, move over, let another
car in between, whatever it takes – just don't follow a Volvo.
Before too long, it became an instinctual habit, like hand washing,
except it was my dirty little superstitious silly secret.
Years
passed. I successfully avoided hundreds of Volvo varmints. Until,
that is, one day, stuck in multiple lanes of horrid Christmas shopper
traffic, I felt ill. Scary sick. I wanted to pull over, off the
road, but no one would let me. I signaled. I waved. I pleaded with
my best 'please help me' facial cues, but Christmas has a way of
bringing out the worst in jolly jerks stuck in traffic.
My
body unsympathetic to my plight, found a way to curtail the
conundrum. I passed out. Fainted while driving, with my foot firm
on the gas. And smacked into the vehicle in front of me. A Volvo.
Apparently,
I spun my wheels against that car until smoke and smell of burning
tires brought people running to my car, banging on windows to rouse
me from my public pass-out routine. A fire engine and ambulance
blared sirens to get to me. Dazed and disoriented, it dawned on me
I'd hit a Volvo.
Maybe
my lifetime revolt and avoidance was in preparation for just this
moment, and I failed my own premonition.
The
real kicker is health insurance, namely Blue Cross and Blue Shield.
They had taken my money forever in timely paid premiums with no
claims, because, generally, I enjoy good health, despite my odd
beliefs about one particular brand of vehicle.
After
this accident, I had to go to the hospital to find out why I fainted,
incurring a small bill and I made the appropriate claim.
Unbelievably,
Blue Cross denied my claim (and I denied paying premiums any longer)
stating 'driving unconscious is NOT an emergency'.
Ah
ha! That explains Volvo drivers. And I still won't follow a Volvo.
