On the whole I'm not a fan of us gesturing at each other on the roads. My theory is that because I'm a woman in a rather neglected car, I soak up more than my fair share of negativity, while my little Hyundai and I are driving along in all innocence and goodwill.
This belief of mine is confirmed by the fact that when I get behind the wheel of Emo's nice car, the attitude towards me as a driver becomes a tad more positive and polite. And when Emo himself drives his own car, he meets only courteous behaviour, smiles and well-mannered pedestrians who cross only at the places designated for the purpose.
But every coin has two sides. In my capacity as a woman driver, I get priceless information from other drivers about the condition and problems of my car, which I could never have worked out on my own.
There's been one single time in my whole driving career, 15 years now, when I managed all by myself, without the help of my fellow drivers on the roads, to make the right diagnosis of my car.
On one visit to the mechanic, he stuck a sticker with numbers on the car door and told me that when it reached that mileage, I should come back to him so he could change the oil.
There followed 2–3 years during which the mechanic's path and mine never crossed, and then my little Hyundai suddenly started behaving strangely. It drove fine, it ran fine, but somehow it grumbled. As if it was in a huff with me. But I'm used to reading the shades of light and dark in the behaviour of the people around me, and I transfer those skills to the behaviour of the car too. After all, I've lived for so many years with a representative of the touchiest sign of the zodiac.
I'm an old hand at reading the crystal ball regarding the constantly shifting moods of My-Lord-and-Master, born under the eternally offended zodiac constellation of Cancer. If, for no reason at all, he lowers his baritone by half a tone, hugs his pillow for moral support and starts casting wounded looks at me over its shoulder, it's all clear: I've hurt him again. I used to wonder why, out of nowhere, in the middle of a normal conversation, he'd go off in a huff with me, but now I know.
He's probably remembered, after the fact, how the other day, when I was making fresh juice, I selfishly put only orange in it, even though I know perfectly well that he likes the taste softened with a bit of apple too.
If it's not the juice situation, it'll be: “You didn't give my last post a heart.”
With trembling fingers I go to his profile to report for duty. Having done my duty, I explain myself: …
“Ooooh, it just didn't come up in my feed… if I'd seen it in time, I'd have left lots and lots of hearts, that post is crying out for them.”
Little do I suspect that I'm heading straight for the most cunningly laid marital trap, namely:
“Of course you didn't see it, because the algorithm pushes the posts of the people you're interested in higher up, and I can't squeeze in among them.”
So, using the reconstruction of past events as a method for working out why my husband or my car is sulking with me, I remembered the sticker on its door showing when I needed to change the oil. From it, a number was staring at me reproachfully, according to which the deadline for the oil change had been 15,000 kilometres before my current mileage.
But that's more or less the only case in which I've put my finger on the problem correctly all by myself.
Usually I don't need to, because I find out what's wrong with us (with my car, but sometimes with me too) from other drivers.
I'm familiar with the rich range of condescending gestures and facial expressions with which my fellow drivers like to train me, instruct me and, in rare cases, encourage me.
Starting with the fact that every time I park, there's a stranger who considers it his sacred duty to abandon his aimless wandering with a can of beer in hand and start instructing me:
“Full right lock,” “Straighten up,” “Keep the wheel straight, will you,” and finally, raising a satisfied palm: “That's it, you can switch off, stop, STOP I said, woman, you'll take the kerb out.” Then he wipes his weary brow and goes back to his wandering, pleased that he's saved the world.
Carrying on: while I'm waiting at the lights, the driver of the car waiting next to me starts staring at me insistently, making a movement as if he's turning an imaginary handle. It took me several years of experience to understand that this gesture means “wind your window down, madam, I've got something to tell you that can't wait!”
When I wind my window down, I get the concerned notification that I've got a big scrape on the “front left quadrant” (I hope I'm repeating the term correctly, I'm quoting from memory). I know, I know that for 98% of the men in this world this is a problem that can't wait. But I did that bit of damage by hitting the car against a post while dropping my youngest son off at nursery. The kid is now in seventh grade.
So I more or less thought I was fluent in drivers' sign-and-face language, until a few months ago I discovered a gesture in their arsenal that was new to me.
It started again in the familiar way: the turning of the imaginary handle in the air, meaning “wind your window down so I can tell you what a mess you've made”. But while I was getting round to lowering the glass, the lights turned amber. We had no time for a conversation, but as he shot off ahead, the man directed at me a gesture new to the Almanac of Driver Sign Language. Or at least new to me. It went like this: curling the fingers into a fist, followed by flinging them open in a flash. This repeated several times in quick succession. It gave the impression of something flashing. I read it as a command to put my indicator on immediately and right this second.
Strong feelings started battling in my chest: I was in the left-hand lane, with a light showing straight ahead only (for my lane). Which is where I'd already carried on, and we were at a junction. But like Pavlov's dogs, I obeyed without question and put on the utterly illogical left indicator, because after all a creature of the superior sex had advised me to put it on. With which action I brought down on myself the righteous wrath of countless horns.
I zoomed ahead, deafeningly hooted at by the queue behind me. The beeps thinned out and by the next red light they'd disappeared completely. There I had the honour of waiting alongside a car full of four grinning young lads. Every one of whom, with dazzling smiles directed at me, was performing the sacrament of the new gesture, the flashing one. In perfect sync with one another. I was glad they were having fun, but I couldn't shake the unpleasant feeling that it was at my expense.
What was the message they were all so unanimously sending me?
My brain was working feverishly at high revs. Today's youth has its own specific language. If it weren't for my own kids explaining to me what “rizz” is, for example, I wouldn't understand half the conversations of the 20-year-old colleagues at the office. And now I not only understand, I can even build on it with extra touches like “W rizz” and “L rizz”.
There's something more important too. Besides new terminology like “rizz” and “locked in”, by watching the behaviour of the Gen Z-er I gave birth to, I've established that new gestures have now been normalised in the world as well.
Take one called “mogging”. My son, born in 2007, invests a substantial part of his time in practising it to perfection in front of the mirror.
The choreography of the gesture is complex. It starts with a meaningful raising of one eyebrow, followed by a seductive running of the index finger along one's own jaw, and the grand finale of it all culminates in a cheeky “shhh”, delivered with the same index finger now placed in front of the lips.
All this while watching his own reflection with a tempting little spark in his eye.
This gesture, or rather this flex, apparently means something along the lines of “my jawline is more defined than yours”. Hand on heart, I admit I could never have worked that one out.
Fortunately, the gesture of my little friends in the car was simpler and, I hoped, far less niche. I reckoned I had a chance of decoding what they wanted to tell me with the good old “flashing”, which I'd been getting all day long.
Think soberly, Nia, think step by step and logically. Young people love using English words, don't they.
That “flashing” hand could mean “flash”: a blinking light.
Right. But I've already found out the hard way that it doesn't mean “put your indicator on”…
God!…
The most horrible thought cut through me: “flash” in English is also used for what exhibitionists do in parks, opening their trench coats…
Oh my, if the neckline of my summer top has slipped out of place, that really will be the end! There was a good chance those happy teenage smiles had been caused by exactly that kind of delicate gaffe.
My mother, bless her, is always telling me to stop working out my complexes by wearing low-cut clothes… oh, if I can just get away with this one, I'll listen to you from now on, Mum.
While my gaze, in agonised suspense, travelled through time and space down to my neckline, I sent my mother a message by telepathy. I swore an oath: if everything's fine now, I'll listen to her from now on and even on the beach in summer I'll wear a polo neck and an ankle-length dress.
My eyes finally landed on my top, where I established that everything was in its place. Decency on our native roads had been upheld.
Stronger than my relief was only the level of amusement my actions had caused the lads in the next car. In my opinion they were putting themselves in a very dangerous situation with that driver, who was howling with laughter, slumped over his steering wheel while already moving, with his friend from the passenger seat, choking with giggles, sprawled on top of him.
Lost in thought, I parked in front of the garage at home. Emo was just coming out of it, and instead of “hello” he greeted me with the answer to the riddle that had been tormenting me all day. Namely, what the authors of the gestures on the roads had been trying to tell me all day long:
“Your headlight's gone, Nia!”
