his is how I drive: barefoot. The windows are down. The right foot is on the gas/brake (I do not use Cruise Control) and the left is resting on the seat, underneath me Indian-style or hugged to my chest. All this might sound weird and yoga-ish, but it is not nearly as weird as when I put my foot out on the car window, which I've been told is just freakish.

The car I drive is a '92 Honda Accord. A workhorse of a car. It is kind of a bluish-green, an aqua maybe, or a silvery bluish-greenish. It was a novel color in the early Nineties, a color that drew sighs of envy and admiration. More recently, however, a passenger in the Honda described its color as "hideous." I countered by calling that person "an asshole."

I sing a lot. I sing loudly too, often at the top of my lungs, which can result in my right foot involuntarily pressing down on the accelerator so that the car is hurtling along at a cool 90 mph and soon enough, I am stopped and chatting with a cop, who may not understand the importance of the crescendo at the end of, say, U2's "One." (But I have only gotten one ticket.) Sometimes I don't feel like singing, so I listen to NPR or Christian talk radio, both of which I find totally educational (in completely different ways).

I don't talk on the cellie. I dislike the air conditioner, but I will use it when necessary. I stop no less than every two hours, because I have what is possibly the world's tiniest bladder. (Guy friends have reportedly relieved themselves while driving by using an empty water bottle and some crafty maneuvering. That sort of disgusts me, but then again, it sort of makes me jealous and excited too.)

I always signal, and I always wave 'thanks.'