"BABY, YOU CAN DRIVE MY CAR"

04.28.2026

After my divorce, I did what any practical adult with a sense of self-preservation would do: I found a condo. Not just any condo—the condo.

Over the years, I upgraded it the way many people upgrade their lives: gradually, deliberately, and with the occasional “I deserve this” purchase that I justified as an investment. Paint that actually matched. Fixtures that didn’t scream 1997. Little touches that said, “A responsible person lives here,” even when I was eating Snickers ice cream bars for dinner.

Eventually, something unexpected happened: my condo became my favorite place. Not just my favorite place to sleep or store mail I should open. My favorite place, period. The kind of home that hugs you when you walk in—familiar, safe, free of surprises and blissfully, wonderfully quiet.

And then, two or three years ago, the City decided to introduce a new character into our happy little story: the roundabout.

To be clear, we already had one roundabout on one end of the development. Fine. One traffic circle I can accept. That’s like one eccentric relative at Thanksgiving—manageable, even charming if you keep your distance and don’t argue about anything important.

But the City added another roundabout at the other end of my street, which means there is now no getting out of the development without circling around like you’re auditioning for the demolition derby. I don’t leave my neighborhood anymore; I orbit it.

I know, I know. Roundabouts are supposed to be safer. Better for the environment. Less idling, fewer right-angle crashes, more flow. People say this the way they say kale is “actually delicious if you cook it right.”

The problem is, I have become rigid about driving and traffic. I wasn’t always this way. Once upon a time I was carefree, spontaneous—someone who could merge without performing three silent prayers and a shoulder check that nearly dislocated my neck. These days, I’m not even sure turning lanes are a good idea. So a roundabout at both ends of the development? That’s really pushing it.

Also, the roundabout I use most frequently sits on a state route, which means the people traveling north-south seem to believe they were born with the right-of-way and a mandate to maintain highway speeds regardless of the presence of property, pedestrians, and—most important—pets and wildlife.

Those of us creeping out of the development have to be aware of the drivers gunning down the road—and believe me, they’re gunning. I don’t pull into the circle so much as I negotiate a peace treaty with oncoming traffic.

And once you do make it out, the person behind you is immediately riding your bumper like it’s a carnival attraction. If I have to go three-quarters of the way around, I can practically feel the assumptions radiating off the cars coming north-south: Look at her, going all the way around—is she lost, or is she just old and confused?

If I slow down to take my exit, the bumper-rider honks like the Universe chose me specifically to ruin their day. If I rush, I risk being hit by someone who believes the circle is a highway design error, not a system for improving traffic flow. Suddenly it’s a game of chicken and the driver with the better car insurance policy wins.

Then there are the occasions when you can tell immediately that the person approaching the circle has never encountered a roundabout before, because they come to a full, hard stop. Not a cautious tap of the brakes. A complete halt, like they’re wondering if they’re entering a new dimension of both time and space.

You can almost see their brain buffering: Do I go? Do I yield? Am I allowed to be here? Is this a public art installation?

Meanwhile, a cacophony of horns insists they move. The only problem is the question no one answers for them: move where?

Just when you think the situation can’t get more dramatic, the City adds landscaping to the center—plants that grow tall so you can’t see over them. In theory, everyone follows the same rules and visibility is just a luxury, like having a heated steering wheel in the winter. But does it matter to me? Absolutely.

I want to be able to see 360 degrees before I pull out, because I don’t trust strangers with my safety—and I especially don’t trust strangers who are late for something while driving a truck the size of a caboose.

And on the days those plants need watering, the plot thickens. A water truck parks precariously on the rim of the roundabout while two lanes of traffic try to avoid the truck, the person doing the watering, the hoses, and each other.

So, I’ve developed a routine. I approach the circle the way I approach most modern challenges: with caution, mild resentment, and an internal monologue that sounds something like this: “Okay, we’ve got a Jeep Wrangler entering at two o’clock, an F-150 drifting wide, and—uh-oh—someone with their turn signal on for no reason. Where 'ya going, Bud? Where. Are. You. Going?”

Still, when I make it home—when I pull into my garage, close the door, and hear nothing but the sweet, blessed silence—my condo is exactly what it has always been: my preferred place to be.

The roundabout may have turned running an errand into a small adventure, but it hasn’t taken the one thing I fought hard to build: a home that’s 100 percent mine.

So yes, I’ll keep circling. I’ll yield. I’ll signal. I’ll grit my teeth at the water truck. And if you ever see me out there gripping the steering wheel like my life depends on it, just know this: I’m not lost. I’m simply taking the scenic route the City has designed to ensure I continue developing character, courage, and perhaps, someday, a sense of humor.

If you enjoy these essays and would like to subscribe (free) please visit booksbykate.net and scroll to the bottom of the page. Feel free to forward and share as well.

This image is AI generated.