Imagine you are undergoing major surgery. Not something you would typically imagine, I understand. If you're like me, and you want to let your imagination run wild you imagine yourself relaxing in a hammock on your own private island, your billions close at hand. OK, so it's time to leave the island and get some surgery.
So you are undergoing major surgery and you happen to be awake while it's going on. Hey, I didn't say it would be realistic; I think I was fairly specific that this was imaginary so don't get all technical on me. OK, so you're imagining that you're undergoing major surgery, you're awake during the surgery, and now imagine that the doctor says something like, "Whoa! What is that thing?"
I am yielding the uncanny power of imagination to try to relay to you something of what I feel when I experience the following very real situation: My wife and I are driving down a winding road while on vacation, miles and miles from home... miles and miles from anyone or anything. Suddenly my wife utters the following heart stopping words:
"Is that our car?"
Hoping that she didn't hear or smell something that is wrong with our car, I tell myself that perhaps she saw a car that looks like ours, and I say,
"No, we're in our car."
That my wife is senile and that there is not a thing wrong with our car is too much to hope for. Thus say the gods of smite. Or so it seems. But the smite gods are not on top of their game today (fortunately for me) because as it turns out, my wife merely smelled the gas that I had just passed seconds before. There is nothing wrong with our car. It is my stomache that has issues - the car is fine. Disaster averted. Of course it could mean that I'll be having that major surgery soon.
I wonder if passenger phobia causes as many accidents as drunk driving. Here's one that has nearly put me in the hospital: Driving down the road with a car approaching from a side road on the right. He has a stop, I don't. But then suddenly my observant (and somewhat paranoid) wife announces at the top of her lungs, "Oh my God, he's not going to stop!" And naturally for full effect, she is obligated by the laws of paranoia to grab and pull on my arm as she yells. This of course aids me in my driving. How can I ever call myself a decent driver if I am not slamming on my breaks for no apparent reason?
I am not picking on my wife. She suffers from a disease that is not her fault. And as for her paranoia... well, that's probably not really her fault either. And if I knew who to blame it on I would write that person a sharply rebuking letter. I would say something like,
Dear Person Who Caused My Wife to Be A Paranoid Passenger:
I am very angry with you so don't talk to me for at least a week. May the gods of smite look on you with contempt. May your peers snicker when you walk by, and may your bladder suffer from retention issues. That is all.
OK, so I admit that I don't write good nasty letters. But that doesn't let the responsible party off of the hook. At the very least, they should have to pay for my surgery.