The unsuccessful aggressive driver

Sometimes I find myself feeling sorry for an aggressive driver. Well... more like a driver who tries to be aggressive but fails. This usually takes place late afternoon, before rush hour, on the highway at an accelerated speed. You're driving- music is up very loud, windows are down, sun is shining, you're going at a steady 80mph, and you're position is the tail end of a strand of cars going the same speed. You're happy, you're cruising, and you're comfortable. You take a moment to practice safe driving and glance in your rear view mirror only to see what is usually an older BMW, Mercedes or Lexus. The windows are tinted, or sometimes down just enough to see that the driver is a middle-aged fellow who thinks he's far too divine to be driving himself. Never on a cell phone, and his look is very.... focused. I see this car, this person, driving at a faster pace than my our (remember, there's about 5 cars ahead of me - I'm just following suit) comfortable 80mph, but I do not get over into the right lane: for I can see, just a few cars lengths ahead, a tractor trailer with its 4-ways on as it begins to enter an uphill expedition. I think, "Okay, this guy behind me will see that I can't get over for him, because that would be silly. He will be patient, or hey- maybe he'll join in on the group cruise." No. He abruptly passes on the right, around me, and continues to accelerate his speed only to moments later slam on his brakes as he quickly realizes the tractor trailer has maxed out on 40mph. My 5 car posse and I pass by the aggressive driver and shake our heads in disappointment at his failed attempt to pass. The aggressive driver wannabe then merges over behind me once more and we are now a 7 car parade. Now here's where the pity comes in. This one episode, failed attempt, turns into several. Usually 3 or 4 until you don't think the fellow could possibly take one more rejection. But still, he tries. And though you're not going to help him succeed, a part of you roots for him- hoping he will maybe drive over his oppressors and he will get ahead. If only. Finally, after another and last failed attempt, you decide that you're tired of watching and are, too, ready to leave the parade. You see an opportunity to pass on the right and you take it. This is my favorite. Its your first attempt at getting ahead and you're successful. The driver behind you then, whether he knows it or not, is forced to follow you in shame- as though he is getting his first lesson on how to drive aggressively...or just how to drive...successfully. You discover that his goal was to get off the very same exit as you - and sometimes, if you're lucky- get to the same destination. You look cool and composed, for you know that you are the better driver. And it is dubbed a victory in the driving world. A victory indeed.

The higher the heel, the harder the fall.

Welcome to my cozy little spot in which I blog. I have selected this spot very carefully- like lightly walking barefoot through a wooded forest whose floor is vastly covered in dark green moss that crawls up and tickles in-between my toes with each step I take, searching for that perfect tree to lay my lovely red quilted blanket that my grandmother made for me under. At last, I have found the perfect blog spot! Right here, under this full and gentle willow tree. With branches so plentiful, I must separate the thick curtain just to enter in to my retreat.  Finally, I unfold my blanket, stretching it up and out as far as it can go until the air beneath catches and assists in helping the blanket land safely on the green mossy floor. And now, I am ready to begin.

Actually. That's not true at all.  My grandmother did not make for me a red quilted blanket. Really, my lovely readers, one evening at dinner with friends (this past Saturday to be exact), I began to verbally rant on how I severely dislike it when women wear high heeled shoes that are far too high for them to walk in properly, comfortably, and even safely to events that do not in the least require shoes in the high heeled family. It was then discussed, or decided if you will, that I have a great deal of things to say that are borderline interesting and very non-pressing. And what should one do when this happens? Blog apparently. And so, with one link posted to my Facebook page from a dear friend later, my blog was born. And so now, I give you the first post from the 'Amy's in the rain' blog entitled: "The higher the heel, the harder the fall."

So, as I was saying, I really dislike the, "Let's dress up our slutty and usually mediocre outfits with 4 inch heels that also have a 2 inch platform!" outlook on a weekend outfit. I don't have anything against high heeled shoes, I really don't. I love them, honestly, but let me paint the picture for you. Its Saturday night. Fairly mild outside for a night in early March and raining lightly. I am enjoying a nice outing at the local Irish pub with some friends to celebrate a birthday. I am also enjoying a glass of Merlot when ALL OF A SUDDEN, two girls barely walk up to the bar and sit on their bar stool of choice. Two problems with this: one, they had just arrived to the bar and are already walking as though they've consumed enough alcohol to "win the night", and two, they didn't: they just can't walk because their shoes are too high. Now, like I said before, I love high heeled shoes. If they help complete an already awesome outfit then yes, ladies- go for it! But... two conditions to follow: One. You MUST walk in them properly, comfortably, and safely (as I stated above), and two, they cannot be worn to save a very ugly outfit. You cannot wear faded, light blue, ripped, skinny jeans with a white tank top and pair it with shiny, black, round toe, 4 inch pumps and say the shoes match your black bra that no one can see except for the straps that are twisted in the back, young lady- march right back up those stairs and change this instant! 

This topic has disgusted me slightly. Tune in next time for something else. Don't worry gents, there are plenty of things that bother me- not just really bad fashion. And if you don't like very long overly descriptive run-ons and cannot appreciate the subtle joke it entails, you're following the wrong blog.