“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” Source Unknown

The day of reckoning was finally here. For fifty years, Larry had been the designated driver. But rotator cuff surgery in the spring of 2023 changed our family dynamics. Guess who was now behind the wheel? And guess who was in the passenger seat?

Larry has told me repeatedly that he preferred to drive as part of our division of labor. “You do so much. The cooking. The majority of the cleaning.My driving when both of us are in the car allows you free time.” He is happy to turn on a Jimmy Buffett station and head to one particular harbor—or anyplace we need to go. 

Which is true. My perch to the right allows me to read a book, play with my iPhone, or sleep. Furthermore, I can relax knowing that a person I consider an excellent driver is getting us where we need to be. 

The challenge is that when I am driving, Larry feels the need to help. Needless to say, his “help” makes me anxious, nervous, and, at times, furious. Larry and I have had few fights in our 50 years of marriage. Some of the worst are a result of his backseat driving. It is just easier for me to let him take over the wheel.

The proverbial backseat driver (BSD) has been the butt of numerous jokes. Suggestions to cope abound: Turn up the music. Turn on the GPS. Give the offending party responsibility for another task. (“Can you Google some restaurants near by?”) Put the offender in the trunk or tied to the roof. Or just refuse to drive.

I’ve had my own ideas on how to cope. A month before his shoulder repair, Larry had surgery to fix his trigger finger. It only required a local anesthetic and someone to drive him home. Forty-five minutes after the procedure, the nurse was going over the final paperwork for his release. She asked if we had any questions.

“Do you have duct tape?” I asked

“Errr…no.” she replied.

“Then how about giving him a shot of Valium?” I said. “I need to keep him quiet for the 25 mile ride home.”

As I expected, the nurse refused. We didn’t make it out of the parking garage before Larry was compelled to start giving me directions.

“You need to go left up the ramp,” Larry instructed. 

“No, I need to go right.” 

“You need to go left.”

Aware that his sense of direction was better than mine, I went left. We got to have a nice tour of the upper floors of the garage before passing by our space on the way down to the exit. By the time I merged the car onto I-4, Larry had already notified me of two lane changes. [Full disclosure: I almost missed the ramp] Fortunately, he had the go-ahead to resume driving the next day.

This was obviously not the case for Larry’s rotator cuff surgery. His right arm was in a huge sling, and his limited shoulder movement meant he would not be driving for at least six weeks. Staying home was not an option. We had Special Olympics practices and state games, numerous doctors’ appointments, and outing to restaurants, supermarkets, Disney Springs, and Bok Tower. 

Each trip came with its own set of instructions. “You need to be in the left lane for the upcoming turn.” (The turn wasn’t  happening for three miles.)“Is there a reason you driving so slowly? (I was in a school zone.) “There’s a stop sign ahead.” (Really? I didn’t notice. Duh!)

My “Driving Mr. Larry” stories may bring a chuckle and a flash of recognition to some, but such “help” has a darker side.”A 2011 ‘Driver Distraction’ study, commissioned by Esure car insurance revealed that 51 percent of respondents have gotten angry while driving because of backseat commanders.The statistics get worse: 14 per cent of motorists have had an accident or near miss due to being distracted by a backseat driver.

Adding to the challenge is that from the day I got my permit, I have never been an enthusiastic driver. It didn’t help that my mother, who was extremely tentative behind the wheel, taught me how to drive. I can still envision her “braking” every time I got close to the stop sign during our tense practice drives. After taking my driver’s education classes at Keeseville Central School with Ken Goodspeed (I kid you not), it took me three tries with Plattsburgh’s DMV to pass the New York State driving test. (To this day, I hate parallel parking!). 

Thousands of miles later, I take pride in having only one traffic ticket—going 47 miles in a school zone. Embarrassingly, my transgression occurred in front of Okte Elementary during Adam’s first grade recess. If I had any hope of not sharing my shame with Larry, it was dashed when Adam asked at dinner that night, “Mommy, why did that nice policeman stop you in front of the playground?”

I also take pride in our 1272 mile trip we took in 2015 to our new home in Florida. We came in two cars, Larry driving the Prius; me, the Camry. Despite the traffic jams, horrific rain storms and all the crazy drivers we encountered, we both completed our three-day trek successfully. Ten years later, I have managed to drive both by myself and with passengers with a level of assurance I hadn’t enjoyed when Larry is in the car. 

In the five weeks following his surgery, Larry became more comfortable with my driving—commenting less and complimenting more. He was very appreciative of the miles I logged being the designated driver while he was incapacitated. Those miles gave me the valuable experience needed to drive in this crazy state of Florida, which autowise.com, an insurance site, ranked as the “official home of the horrible driver. “ 

I had hoped that there would be a  silver lining hiding in Larry’s huge sling. Maybe Larry the Backseat Driver would morph into Larry the Happy Passenger, glad to hand over the driving to me and to enjoy the passing scenery. Confident in both my abilities and the GPS to get us safely to our destination, I would turn off Jimmy Buffett, turn on the On Broadway station on Sirius XM, and sing along with “Defying Gravity” on our way to our next doctor’s appointment or our next on-the-road adventure. 

Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Larry still prefers to take the wheel. So I have found a different silver lining.  Safely ensconced in the passenger seat,  I get to play with my phone, read a book, or take a snooze. Larry can have his “Cheeseburger in Paradise.”  I have my license to chill.