Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Why I'm not a NASCAR driver

I was cruising down I-80 the other day when -- faster than you can say Talladega Nights -- I slipped into race car mode. My right foot staged a coup and took over control of my driving senses. My pleasure cruise through the heartland became a challenge to catch up to and pass as many cars as I could, as quickly as I could.

While it was fun and all that, I didn't think a speeding ticket would add much pleasure to my travels. I reluctantly slowed down and put on the cruise control, thinking that maybe if this whole Queen of the World thing doesn't work out I just might have a future as a NASCAR driver.

I would be a success, of course, but surely being Queen of the Track would have its drawbacks. Then it hit me:

1. No potty breaks. Well, not, you know, honest-to-God get-out-of-the-car-type pee breaks. I can barely make it from the Royal Castle in to town (all of 3 minutes, including waiting for the garage door) without a potty break. The little Prince and Princess hate shopping trips with me because I insist on potty breaks at nearly every store we visit. This is why it can take me all afternoon just to run a few errands. Better safe than soppy, I always say.

2. No eating in the race car. I've never seen a McDonald's bag rolling around on the floor in any of those "in car" shots during a race. And I've never seen a cup holder, either. I'll admit I don't watch a lot of NASCAR races, but you'd think maybe just once I would have noticed. When we bought the current Royal Carriage, I vowed no food would be consumed in it. That lasted approximately two days. And only that long because we didn't drive it on day two.

3. Jump Suit Ass. Need I say more? Sure Danica Patrick looks cute in her little jumpsuit, but she's elf-sized. Being of more Queenly proportions, I just don't think it would be a flattering look. Then again, perhaps a little fashion change is just what that sport needs!

4. Helmet Hair. Bad enough on its own, combined with number 3, this would be deadly. And a helmet is not something you could do without. Especially with those open windows. My hair would either be a wind-blown birds nest, or slicked-down, static clingy, helmet-shaped mop. I don't think there would be room under the helmet for my tiara, either.

5. More Voices in My Head. Just what I need, spotters and crew chiefs and who knows who else chattering away on the radio inside my helmet. I get enough advice about my driving already -- from the little Angels in the backseat, and the helpful gestures of fellow motorists -- I don't need anymore!

6. Road Rage. Despite my calm demeanor, there is a bitch inside me hiding just below the surface. I can picture the scene now: "Did Jeff Gordon really just cut me off? Oooohhh, I don't think so, Girlfriend. I'm gonna hafta get all up in his bidness. Looka hear you little..." Well, you get the picture. They'd be yanking my in-car camera and microphone for sure.

7. Too Freakin' Long. Those races are what, 200-, 500-, bazillion- laps? And for what? It all comes down to the last one or two laps anyway. If they finish under a yellow flag you could just chop off the last couple laps, too! The races are only that long so they can sell more concessions and advertising time. And as a potential driver, this gets back to numbers one and two. I couldn't race that long without a snack or a potty break.

8. They Don't Go Anywhere! So you finish the face. Where are you now? Right back where you started! To get my attention, they would have to move the finish line to somewhere important. Preferably somewhere with shopping. Or a restaurant. Or a bathroom.

9. Limited Computer Interface. Sure, the guys back in the pits are all sitting around watching U-Tube and playing Spider Solitare on their laptops while the drivers are out there ... driving. It would be just like at home, with everyone using my fast new computer except me!

10. It Just Wouldn't Be Fair. When you've got as much talent and beauty as I do, you have to work extra hard to keep everyone else happy. I don't want to be a glory hog. I can share the limelight. It's enough for me to know in my heart that I would rule NASCAR. I don't have to prove it to anyone.

Except that Suburban that passed me just past the Swisher exit. Next time I'll smoke him, but good.

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