>Life in the Slow Lane

So I’m driving down the interstate, babies in the backseat, when this Lexus pulls right up on my back bumper and starts tailgating like there’s no tomorrow.

I look in my rearview mirror and spot a middle-aged helmet-head-hairdo’d woman with oversized sunglasses. “What the hell, Bizatch?” I mutter. I’m in the slow lane, for heaven’s sake. I take my foot off the accelerator, of course, and slow to about 50 miles an hour. Meanwhile, she stays inches from my bumper until she can whiz around me.

As she passes, we make eye contact. She smiles at me with this… this look, like I’m Betty and she’s Veronica, cruising off with Archie in the passenger seat of her Daddy’s Mercedes. After a beat, Lexus Lulu steps on the accelerator and zooms off, while I glower at her from behind my steering wheel. That sucked, I think to myself. I’m not old enough to get that kind of smile from a 47-year-old bitch in a Lexus! I should be showing her the evil gleam of my teeth!

It had to be the Buick.

I realize I must look like white trash, driving an old, dirty Buick around, loaded down with small children, carseats, sippy cups, and a hundred different stuffed animals, vending toys and princess figurines. But is it not clear to absolutely anyone that inside this Buick is a would-be, should-be Porsche Boxster driver? Who should also be wearing Marc Jacobs instead of Mark Downlimitedexpress? Who actually might have cut her hair within the last six weeks not six months, and whose nails definitely do not smell like they might have just the smallest bit of baby poop underneath one of them?! If Leonarda McLexus couldn’t see all of that just by looking at me, then she’s the slow one. Or so I’m telling my bruised ego…

Gah.

This post originally appeared on Parents.com.