Tractor-Trailers and My Imminent Death

I’m frightened of many things. Parasites, dark alleys, falling down flights of stairs/into ditches, needles, blood and all bodily fluids, the insides of wrists, and weighing more than 140 pounds.

I refused to do sommersaults in gym class because I knew I could contract head lice from the exercise mats. I scurry past alleys with my purse clutched tight. I don’t look down when I decend stairs, and when I get my blood drawn, I shut my eyes and think of unicorns and rainbows. I can’t even watch doctor shows on NBC, let alone the Discovery Channel, without cringing and getting queasy. Monkey bars were stomach turning in grade school–spindly wrist crossed over spindly wrist exposing tiny tendons that looked as if they were about to puncture the skin. And don’t get me started when my favorite dress can’t zip up my back.

But my biggest fear of all time is something, although I try to actively avoid, I can’t help but encounter on a daily basis. And this fear, my friends, is my fear of giant-monster-scary-demon tractor-trailers.

Like runaway trains. Only I have to drive next to 'em.

I wasn’t always afraid of tractor-trailers. Before I got my drivers license, I was pretty much oblivious to their presence, as my chauffeur (aka my mother), was and still is afraid of driving on the highway. And the highway, as you all may know, is where tractor-trailers like to hang out. My first encounter with a mean tractor-trailer came when I was 15. I was riding shot-gun with my boyfriend-at-the-time driving, about to hop on 270-N from the Dougherty Ferry overpass. It was our first date. I was scared and nervous just like any adolescent about to embark on an adventure in courtship–and so was he. And apparently so was the mother-fucking tractor-trailer that pulled onto Dougherty Ferry from the north off-ramp, side-swiped his Jeep, and almost killed us.

Luckily, the tractor-trailer just nicked the front of his vehicle as it tried to turn west. And when I say almost killed, I mean if we were a centimeter and a hair forward, then I’m pretty sure the date would have ended in the hospital and not at the movie theatre as planned. My boyfriend slowly backed up and the cars behind us followed suit as the tractor trailer tried to straighten itself out of the turning lane and into the westbound lane. The police were not dispatched and no one was injured. Nevertheless, it was a close call. I remember my heart beating out of my chest as my date grabbed my hand and told me everything would be alright. And it was, thank God. But that was the day my fear of tractor-trailers cemented itself into my conscious and I haven’t been able to shake it since.

When I finally got my license in high school, going to school in Frontenac and out to house parties in Chesterfield was the extent of my driving. I only drove on Highways 270 and 40 and only drove on them occasionally. The majority of my driving was on side streets leading to Manchester Road. Tractor-trailers, although I did come into contact occasionally, seemed to stay out of my way. Rarely did I have to speed past them while choking back nervous trembles. Until I went to college that is. And freaking MODOT decided to close Highway 40, aka, my route to Wash U. I had to find alternative routes in order to get educated. Granted, I lived in UCity at the time, but when it was laundry day or I needed to travel back to West County for one reason or the other, I only had one (speedy) option: Highway 44, aka, the path of most resistance.

Highway 44 is a tractor-trailer’s dream. Highway 44 is my nightmare. Not only are the lanes narrow and windy, but every single company uses Highway 44 for transport via tractor-trailer. They are EVERYWHERE. From blocking the Murdoch exit to hugging the off-ramp on Grand, I swear these beasts multiply like flies. I shake as they pass me, my palms grease the wheel with sweat, my legs tremble on the gas. I make sure I have a pair of flats in my car at all times, just in case I have to drive 44. (Heels=no stability on the pedals against these goblins.) I even remember a handful of times last year I had to pull over a few exits early just to get out of their way without having a heart attack. I know it’s all in my head, but when I drive next to multiple tractor-trailers, my life seems to flash before my eyes. It’s as if they’ve all decided to gang up on my itty bitty car, block and surround me, only to come crashing down until I’m smashed into a million pieces.

Tractor-trailers hunt in packs.

Now that 40 is completely finished and finally back open, I have been able to (almost) successfully breakup with 44, unless I’m headed to the South Grand area and need to get there in a hurry. Which really isn’t possible using 40.  I’ve used some breathing techniques to calm my nerves somewhat, and the fear is still ever-present, but I know I’m not going to die. I’ve realized that I’ll never be able to completely avoid tractor-trailers for the rest of my life and I’ve learned to bite the bullet when need be. Maybe if I lived closer to the city, or in the city, and my highway driving was limited, I’d be ok. But there is one thing for certain and that is I never want to turn into my mother and entirely avoid the highway. I’m not that kind of girl; I’m not going to let anything hold me back. So if you’re ever with me while I’m driving and we just so happen to pass a tractor-trailer, be sure to mention unicorns and rainbows, turn up the Third-Eye-Blind track that’s playing, and we’ll make it to our destination before I can even look in the rearview mirror.

Word,

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