*This is a work of nonfiction based on actual events I experienced firsthand; used with permission.
I dated a man who was extremely bossy.
He didn't hide who he was in the beginning. His true colors were visible right up front.
I didn't mind it much at first. I thought it was refreshing to date a man who was the take-charge type. I was wrong.
He wasn't so much the take-charge type as the "sit back and tell you what to do type." As it turns out, I hate that type.
One day, he advised me that I needed to drive him to the eye doctor for his annual appointment, which he had skipped for the last five years. His eyeglasses had given up the ghost, and not even a liberal application of duct tape could save them.
I agreed to drive him to the doctor's office under one condition. "No backseat driving," I said. "I've had my driver's license for longer than you have, and I don't need you to tell me how to drive."
I can't exactly say he agreed to my terms, but he did acknowledge that he heard me.
When the day came for his doctor's appointment, I picked him up with trepidation. I knew I was in for a stressful drive.
He didn't like the route I chose to drive to his doctor's office even though my mother worked in the same building, and I was one hundred percent confident it was the best way to go. Even if it wasn't the best way, it was the best way for me, and I was the only one driving.
He didn't like the speed I drove even though I hovered right around the speed limit. He didn't like that I minimized lane changes by getting into my lane and staying there without passing slow drivers in front of me.
He didn't like the way I drove forward, turned, behaved at stop signs and stop lights, stepped on the gas or the brake, used my turn signal, or listened to the radio. In short, he didn't like anything about the way I drove.
The ride home was worse. Since the doctor had dilated his pupils, his vision was impaired on the drive back to his house. Yet he still persisted in trying to tell me how to drive.
He was so annoying that it was physically painful.
To top it all off, when we were nearly at his house, I mentioned that he could return the favor, and he said, "No."
"I should make an appointment with my eye doctor, too," I said casually, "and you can drive me."
"No," he said quickly. "Your mother can drive you."
Thanks. Incidentally, it was the last time I drove him anywhere.
What would you have done? Comments are welcome.
Why would you want to Buy Me a Coffee? I am a full-time writer and a full-time unpaid caregiver to my 82-year-old father, who lives with Parkinson's. Your tip or donation allows me to provide for his care and comfort around the clock while working from home. Thank you.
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