Open letter to ‘stupid’ boy, from Mama Kimerer
ter than 90 MPH Last Tuesday Night,
You don’t know me. You likely never will. But I know you — sorta. And watching you zip past me on the highway at what I’m estimating was about 96 miles per hour gave me some good insight, yo.
You didn’t see me — or the man you nearly clipped on your right as you zig-zagged between lanes. He threw up a hand at you, which you, of course missed, being just a distant blur by then.
Not that you would have caught a glimpse of either of us since when you and I arrived at the exit ramp (AT THE SAME TIME!), you were busy texting.
If my arms were long enough to have reached out and snatched that smartphone out of your dumb hands to use as a back-of-the-head-smacking device, I would have. Stupid dinosaur arms.
We ended up alongside one another at three more red lights, not that you were aware of that or anything else around you — a rather bad trait in a driver, dontcha think?
At our final joint stop, I could stand it no longer, I leaned far out my driver’s side window and screamed right into your 17-year-old face (if you’re even that and you’re not a day over; moms know these things), “PLEASE SLOW DOWN!”
You couldn’t hear me, though, over the deafening bass drums destroying the speakers of your parents’ beautiful 2018 Malibu.
So here’s what: You’re a jerk. Kinda. I mean, not really. We’ll get back to that.
Look, I know you’re a new driver. I know it’s a thrill to feel a fast breeze blow through your hair. I know you are enjoying your first taste of true independence. I get it.
It may not seem so to look at me, but I too was 17 once. #AMillionYearsAgo
Did I do dumb crap back then? Heck, yes. But by the grace of God (do me a favor, go back and re-read that phrase), I made it. Thank you, Guardian Angel. Maybe I survived so I could be around to tell you to knock it off.
Listen, kid, unless you’re a stunt driver on the closed set of “Smokey and the Bandit” or you’re Dale Earnhardt Jr. lapping the track one last time, you don’t get to drive that way, capisce?
Oh, and by the way, the only time you should EVER text and drive is on Dec. 32. Or Feb. 30. Yeah, not even then, you dig?
I’m mad at you.
First of all, you made me bust out my Ugly Mom Face. As if I’m not having enough trouble with forehead wrinkles at age 50?
Also, you ruined my night. Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw your face… poking out through a broken windshield. Then I imagined your Mom’s. It was just broken.
Why are you doing this to your mom and me, you little punk? Except that you likely aren’t.
You’re probably sweet and smart and funny, play basketball, love Chipotle and have a cute little girlfriend.
The thing is, ya rotten little bugger you, I want you to make it to 18 — and 81, OK?
Please slow down. Life goes by fast enough all on its own, kiddo.
Somebody Else’s Worried Mom
Kimerer is a Tribune Chronicle columnist who says prayers to St. Jude for random reckless drivers. Read her ramblings atwww.patriciakimerer.com