I drove to a job interview today in Brian’s Tahoe.  To call his truck ‘big’ is an understatement.  It feels like driving a building—a lurching, mutinous building, that doesn’t particularly care for the directions you give it, so it obeys them on its own time.  Brian’s last truck was a twenty-year-old Landcruiser, so I guess he likes them that way.  When I first got in the passenger’s seat of that Landcruiser, I thought it was the largest truck I’d ever ridden in.  Brian’s form in the driver’s seat to my left felt like it was four feet away.  Now, in the Tahoe, we sit even further apart.  I never would have thought it possible, but it is even bigger.

 

            When I am driving it, which is only when I absolutely have to, I sometimes forget how I look to other cars on the road.  Since I feel small and timid behind the wheel, I assume that other drivers can sense my meekness, and are going to try and crush me.  Chances are, though, that all they actually see is a monstrous blue Tahoe.  When I realize this, I suddenly feel like a tiny bunny sequestered in the head of a giant rampaging killer robot.  I’m sure everyone has those days. 

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