SLOW AND OLD

I am getting old.

No, it’s not that new patch of grey alongside my right ear. I actually am quite proud of that - it’s almost a streak of grey/white (SIDEBAR HERE: why do we call them ‘grey’ hairs when they are almost WHITE, not grey?), and I have earned this.

It’s not even my memory. With a family history of Alzheimer’s and a brain injury already, that is sort of a given - I can’t hold onto much of any information for longer than a few seconds. The only reason I can write is because the previous thought is, literally, right in front of my in black and white, and I can read it again.

No, it’s my driving.

Or rather the SPEED of my driving.

Because of our spectacular wildfire in the Huachuca Mountains, the speed limit was temporarily lowered to 45 mph for about ten miles on S. Hwy 92 because of the crews still dealing with clean up, new electricity set-ups, and removal of burnt trees.

And I had no problem with it. I use the cruise control on my truck CONSTANTLY 1) because there are many, many miles between my house and… well, any place civilized, and 2) I honestly do try to honor the speed limit.

My last speeding ticket was in 1979 (really).

So the 45 mph was not a problem.

The difficulty was when they put it back up to 55.

Suddenly I was keenly aware of how much more of the scenery was whizzing by, and how little of it I was actually aware of.

I realized that I had to keep my foot just a little bit closer to my brake in order to avoid the frequent quail, rabbit, and occasionally deer who foolhardily attempted to cross the road.

But most of all, how many more drivers were piling up on my tail when I was keeping right at the speed limit.

I wanna go slower. All the time.