Driving Miss Hazy

Battling a congestion attack from hell and a raging hangover, I spent all day Sunday — 10 a.m.-5:20 p.m. — in a conference room for a defensive-driving class. Some people take these to knock points off their license, but for those with clean records, like yours truly, it represents a decent savings on car insurance.

I’m not sure it was worth it.

The first mistake I made was letting my bargain-hunter aunt talk me into taking a class she found for $10, rather than the $50 one I’d taken twice before. As the old saying goes, you get what you pay for.

Why was the class $10? It was run by AARP. Yes, I know, I just turned 40, but you can keep your wise-assed jokes to yourself.

In the interest of full disclosure, here is where I have to admit: I have absolutely no patience for old people. I know that sounds cruel and mean, but it’s not as bad as it seems. I never let the old people know how much they’re driving me up the wall when they do things like take 25 minutes to order food or make a day trip out of walking down the subway stairs. I hear you saying, “You’ll be old someday, too,” and I realize this is true. But I can’t help it. New Yorkers aren’t predisposed to have patience. It is what it is.

So being in a room full of them all day, sick and hung over, was a bad, bad combination.

The class was scheduled for 10 a.m.-6 p.m., but it never takes up the allotted time. We could have been out of that room by 4 p.m. if it wasn’t for some of the stupid questions and discussions.

There was one woman who couldn’t understand the difference between “right of way” and “right,” as in right or left.

A segment about backing up somehow evolved into a 10-minute discussion about going to the mall and looking for open spots that were parallel to each other, so you can pull right in forward and not have to either back in or out, but naturally, those are hard to find near the stores, so you have to decide if you want to walk far or not.

Kill me now. Seriously, just pull the trigger.

And just to push me completely over the edge, just as the instructor was about to wrap up this day from hell, two women had to ask inane, moronic questions about insurance. I guess waiting for the class to end, then asking the instructor privately, was too advanced of a concept to grasp.

I want those seven hours and 20 minutes of my life back. Seriously.

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