Why Are People Such Bad Drivers These Days?

I don’t know when driving turned into a competitive sport, but apparently I’ve been losing for years.

Every morning I climb into my car like I’m entering a gladiator arena, except instead of swords, everyone’s armed with turn signals they refuse to use. I swear there’s a secret club of drivers who believe blinkers cost extra per use. “Oh no, can’t signal—might run out before winter.”

There’s always that one person going 12 mph in a 45, deeply committed to sightseeing what I can only assume is the same gas station we’ve all passed since 1998. Meanwhile, I’m behind them having a full internal crisis:
Do I pass? Do I stay? Is this my life now?

And then—just when I gather the courage to pass—they speed up. Not a little. Oh no. Suddenly they’re auditioning for NASCAR. Where was this energy back there, Brenda? What inspired this transformation?

Let’s not forget the “brake tap dancers.” No reason. No obstacle. No emotional trigger I can identify. Just random brake lights flickering like they’re sending Morse code:
“Help. I. Forgot. How. Driving. Works.”

Merging onto the highway is my personal favorite horror genre. You’ve got people treating the on-ramp like it’s a suggestion instead of a runway. We’re supposed to accelerate, not cautiously creep into traffic like we’re asking permission.

And tailgaters—those folks who believe the safest following distance is “intimate.” I can’t see your face, but I can feel your judgment. Back up. We’re not in a relationship.

My personal breaking point? The left lane campers. The ones who settle into the passing lane like they’ve signed a lease. Meanwhile, a line of cars stacks up behind them like a sad parade of regret.

I’ve started narrating my drives just to cope.

“Ah yes, here we see the wild Minivan drifting gracefully across three lanes with no signal. A bold move. Truly majestic.”

Driving used to be about getting somewhere. Now it’s about survival, patience, and developing psychic abilities to predict what the guy in the rusted pickup might do next.

And yet, every day, I get back in the car.

Not because I enjoy it—but because I refuse to let Brenda win.