coach mz

As much as I hate to complain (really, I don’t like when others do, so I try to avoid complaining as much as possible), I can’t help to bring something to the attention of all drivers — especially drivers in L.A.

First, let me start by saying that if you don’t live in Los Angeles and drive the freeways (yes, that’s what they are called, except if you buy your FasTrak pass to drive in the — once designated carpool lane — FasTrak lane on the 110, otherwise known as the HOV lane), you don’t know traffic. Sometimes I peruse through my IG account and see my fellow IGers taking pictures of their “traffic” in other states and I say, “Oh, you have ‘traffic?’ That’s cute.” It’s cute that anyone driving anywhere other than in L.A., the capital of single-driver cars and the 405 closures dubbed, “Carmagendon,” or, “Jamzilla,” believes he really has “traffic.” Here’s the rub: Driving the freeways and highways here is a super power skill, and one which is not afforded to everyone who gets behind the wheel.

The short article from Island 98.5 via Drop It And Drive (D.I.A.D.)‘s FB page sums up what is probably the biggest complaint we have driving in the fast lanes:

Introducing ‘The Passing Lane!’ – do you know the difference between a perceived ‘right’ to drive in the outside lane vs breaking the law?

It doesn’t matter if you’re going the speed limit. You may feel like you’re doing the right thing by slowing a speeder down, or you may feel it’s your RIGHT to drive in any lane you ‘darn well please.’

You’re not. It’s not.
And you ARE breaking the law.

Here’s how it is DESIGNED to work:
You’re in what you think is just like any other lane except that it’s ‘fast’. Someone approaches you from behind at 64mph (and you look down to see you’re going 57mph and you switch to your smug ‘justified’ face because the sign says 55). While rather close in proximity, the driver begs you to move over.

Oh, how you should.

But you don’t.

The driver tries to be patient and now cars start lining up behind both of you. There’s a quick flash of the brights, (Which means the driver would like to pass) and if you look up from your phone you either move over, or your ego decides that you’ll be stubborn (and in some cases actually slow down ON PURPOSE). In most cases you don’t even notice the signal (flash to pass) but you just start complaining about the guy riding your bumper.

Now there’s four or five vehicles lining up behind you while you have a LOT of distance ahead of you and enough room to move over. Now the sixth vehicle back finally jets across two lanes of traffic to go around not only you and the cars behind you, but but also around the slower cars in the two lanes to your right, only to find that there’s no GOOD reason for you to be IN THE WAY.

Note that he used the ‘SLOW’ lane to do this in and dangerously passes on the right.

Move over. You don’t have to be stubborn. It’s not your lane. You don’t have to be self-righteous. Please be part of the solution. Don’t cause traffic jams and contribute to road rage.

I like to pride myself on being a safe, offensive and defensive driver. I’ve been driving since I was about 12 (my big brother would take me to the mall parking lot and teach me to drive in his blue Ford pick-up truck and taught me how to maneuver the ski boat hitched to the back, too) and learned how to drive a manual VW Bug at age 16. I like to drive fast. I like to be in control behind the wheel. I like to drive like a…well, ur, uh…a dude! Not an SOB dude, the kind that will never admit that he doesn’t, in fact,  own the lane in which he is slowing down, or the kind that wants to “teach a thing or two” about driving too fast in the fast lane. No. I’m more like the confident dude. The one that actually recognizes motorcycles passing and one that acknowledges when another driver pays a courtesy to me. I know it’s a sexist statement and I’m the first to be in the forefront of gender equality on the job and such, but most of us females drive like…well, ur, uh…girls. And women are either extremely rude or extremely polite drivers, but most are just oblivious that they are even behind the wheel of a ton of potentially dangerous and fatal hurt if they make one wrong move.

Before my two daughters began to drive at 16 years old each, the one thing I made sure that they learned, among knee steering and blind spot checks, was my mantra, “Drive faster, or get out of the way.” Both my girls know this. I’ve engrained it in their brains, “OK. Now, if someone is behind you while you are in a left lane, and he flashes his lights, or is tail-gating you, make sure you pull over to the right lane and allow him to pass you.” I would add that on a two-lane highway, to be sure to double check your lane lines (broken is safe; solid is not) and the on-coming traffic, and ALWAYS thank the driver you’re passing. Acknowledge the driver’s passing lane etiquette. When my girls and I would drive together while I’m behind the wheel and we approach a slow car in the fast lane, I’d ask them, “What do you say, girls?” They’d repeat my mantra on queue, “Drive faster, or get out of the way.” Perfect. They’ve got this.

I feel good about making sure my girls are not going to add to the ongoing traffic congestion and the slow-thinking, slow-reacting, slow drivers in the fast lanes. I made my contribution to society: Two well-trained female drivers who know how to keep up or get out of the way. I believe that this traffic mantra has translated to a life mantra, too. So, there. Two birds, or life lessons, with one stone, or one mantra.

While I don’t want to advocate unsafe speeds, I do want to advocate the necessity of knowing lane etiquette and watching your six — you know, the cars behind you. Is it going to be so awful to “get out of the way?” Will you lose face if you acknowledge that you aren’t going to drive over 55? Just move. Just move.

And don’t even get me started on Prius owners….

It always amazes me, although it really shouldn’t, that people do not know elevator etiquette. Let me see, here: Before I proceed onto the elevator, I wait one second to make sure that nobody is attempting a quick get-a-way off the elevator. To me, waiting that one little second is completely normal behavior. After all, I can’t get where I’m going until the people on the elevator get off to get where they’re going, right? Wrong. That logic is faulty at every step of the thought process. We ride the elevator at our own risk.

So often, riding the elevator is a scary adventure. I ride the elevator of a 29-floor, downtown, “business” building at least four times a day. (Air quotes for the word, “business,” will be explained at a later date.) Let’s relay the action here, shall we?

Begin work day, sevenish in the morning. There are no less than 16 elevators from which to choose. Don’t walk straight to the set of eight elevators you first see upon entering the building unless you are prepared for the E-ticket ride straight to the 22nd floor, or unless you want to end up on the 22nd floor and you ride the limited edition elevator that only goes to the 11th floor. If you want to ride to floors 19 through 29, you need to veer left to the second set of six elevators. When I first began working here, I made the mistake of riding the wrong elevator and was 20 minutes late to work. Now, though, I direct traffic in the lobby for the unaware and first-timers. I’m the elevator queen. I can self-declare Elevator Queen. I took the time to ride each and every elevator to each possible venue of the building. It was an interesting and thought-provoking two hours of my life.

This morning, I took the elevator down to the first floor, where, if I turn right and walk down another flight of stairs, I can quell my craving for a small or medium coffee. As the elevator stopped at the first floor, I looked to move forward, when… the Elevator Spaz attacked! She looked harmless enough — small frame, business skirt, sensible heels, and a red blouse. But don’t let her appearance fool you. She’s a thoughtless, hyper, walking-through-life-with-blinders-on type of woman. In other words, a spaz.

Now let me stop right here and be the first to say that I am a self-proclaimed spaz, and a prime candidate of the ADHD poster child (squirrel!), but somehow, I’ve become the ADHD kid with manners and etiquette. I am blessed with having etiquette in many different settings; Thanks, Mom and Dad, for sending my sister and me to etiquette classes at a young age (we even learned the skill of walking with books on our heads with our hips thrusted forward, looking straight ahead). So, I know another spaz when I encounter one. Enough said about my non-politically correct use of the English language… (shiny red ball!).

The elevator spaz charged right at me, head down, with the force of a just-speared bull, charging at his nemesis’ red cape. “Whoa…” I said, “excuse me, please?” “Oh!” As if she were surprised that anyone would dare to be coming OFF the elevator, and at the first floor lobby area, for Pete’s sake. How dare I? She kept right on charging in before I could even take my first step forward off the hydraulic-induced mini-cabin. Being a larger framed woman, I figured, “Spaz powers, IGNITE!” and forged right passed her while I said, “Wow. You can’t wait for others to get off before you get on?” I know that there’s no use in my saying anything to the monster, for she speaks my language of Polite not. But it kind of made me feel better knowing that others heard me and may be giving this creature the malocchio (evil eye) to ward off her evilness inside. I was fortunate to escape her grip. Phew! Being caught by one of these Elevator Spazes is never pleasant.

Two weeks ago, though, I was caught. I was caught by a male version of the species. My flight up, this time, was aborted at level ten, short one floor, and I picked up another passenger. We re-engaged our trip upward. Eleventh floor (instructional products, operations wear, and nursing guides!) I was balancing a cup of my morning coffee along with a snack sized bag of tropical trail mix for later snacking. Boom! Crash! Pow! Yikes! (Yeah, I’m a product of the Batman syndicates.) The monster smashed into me without even a thought (do they think?) and my coffee spilled all over the spaz and me with violent splashes. Most of the coffee was on him. Serves this Elevator Spaz right for being born into this category of funless, thoughtless, mannerless species and not having any elevator etiquette. To add insult to injury, the monster didn’t even apologize for his gross miscalculation and misinterpretation of others living in the world.

The next morning, I began, yet another, ascension on the elevator. I was alone. Two men were watching me as the doors began to shut. I pressed the door open button and waived them both into my domain.

“Oh, thank you for holding the elevator for us.” With a big smile one of them said.

I responded, “Of course I held the elevator for you. Why wouldn’t I?”

They both laughed and the other gentleman said, “Right? You never know sometimes. People are always in such a hurry.”

I motioned to the door close button, pushing it fiercely, “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t know you wanted me to hol…[fade to oblivion as if falling down a dark well]. They both laughed again.

One said, “I really don’t know why people do that, but I know they do. Maybe they just want to be alone.”

“Yeah,” I said, “They’ve been holding in a huge fart and as soon the door closes, ‘P-p-p-th-th-th-wrrrrrupt!'”[squatting down to emulate the process of such a person].

The boys break out in hilarious laughter, “You just made my day! Thanks!”

“Anytime. My pleasure. Have a wonderful day, guys!”

The two get off at the 10th floor, giggling. See? Was that so hard to be a human being for 30 seconds? In fact, it made my day better, too.

Is being at work so all-consuming that you forgot we existed? Have we forgotten how to say, “Good morning,” or, “Have a great day?” Did we forget that one second of your life can be used to put thought into others besides ourselves? We did. Unfortunately, this type of behavior performed by this species is common place and the diseased things have infected the human population. I first believed it had to be a bad etiquette gene that created this species…but it’s worse than what I imagined. It is contagious. Don’t become infected. Don’t morph into this grotesque excuse of a breathing animal. It’s become an us vs. them elevator mentality and I refuse to give in. Put on your Elevator Spaz boots and night vision goggles. You don’t know who the next victim of bad elevator etiquette will be. They strike at a moment’s notice, or no notice at all. Beware and be kind.