A VOLVO REVOLT

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.