Years ago, when the speed limit on Illinois freeways was still 55 mph, I used to accompany my dad on assorted trips and say things like, "Dad, you're speeding: the speed limit is 55 and you're going 62." He would say, "I'm going 7 mph faster than the posted limit. It's OK. Stop giving me a hard time." I would say, "no, it's not OK. You're breaking The Law. The Law says 55, and you're going 62." I would pester him until he got so pissed off that it was clear he wasn't in a good frame of mind to appreciate my constructive admonishments, even though they were for his own good.
Now I am all grown up, and I'm in the driver's seat. My safety record is superb. I am alert and defensive on the road, and I have been receiving "accident-free" discounts from my auto insurance company for well over a dozen years. And I have an eight year old who sits in the back seat and says, "you should have turned left there. You're in the wrong lane. You're not signaling. Why didn't you take that parking spot? What, you think this car is so huge it won't fit? Can't you drive this thing? You're going too fast."
Someday, when Elias has a child of his own, he will tell me his version of this narrative, and I will gloat.
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