I don't like carpooling. I'm not a backseat drive. It's not about control. I promise you that if the situation required it, I would sit on my hands and make small-talk and I wouldn't even mess with the air conditioning knobs or change the volume on the radio when you try to talk to me over that repetitive Top 40.
I'm more concerned with the tiny artifacts: an oily napkin, a crusted up coffee mug, a styrofoam cup and gym shorts reminding me of unfulfilled resolutions. Perhaps it's too much like catching someone masturbate. It's necessary, but I don't want to see it.
But I don't think it's that at all. No, it's the explicit byproduct of used-up humanity, reminding me as I step into a powerful machine, that I am mortal. It's the megaphone screaming that so much of life is already used up.
I don't see any of the artifacts in my own car. The Tupperware container from last week is a reminder that I need to get organized and the crumpled paper towel is a reminder of that great steak and cheese from last week. In my car, I get to me immortal. But when I ride in yours, it's a depressing reminder of decaying dreams.
So, yeah, that's why I won't ride with you on the way to work.
Your Esteemed Colleague