The Middle Seat of the Car

have you ever had a secret dislike of people who call shotgun before you even remember that you're actually going somewhere?

my thought process goes something like this:

Dang it. I should've called that. Why don't I ever remember that the front seat is desirable? Why do they always call it anyway? There should really be a different system, one that favors those who are not quite up on the game of survival of the fittest. One that helps really whiney people like me, who next to never get to sit in front all because of a stupid rule called shotgun.

I decided to retaliate by calling the middle. You know, the seat everone avoids, because your legs are spread over that awkward hump in the middle, and the seat doesn't dip down. Take that selfish shotgun callers! That's right-- now I have made the middle desirable. At least.... I think.

Yesterday, on a long drive to Canada, me and the middle seat became eternal partakers of the love hate relationship. Yep... five hours with a bag between your legs and another behind your head will do that.

I was about ready to call shotgun after that one was over-- my hips were asking me what I ever did to them to make me hate them so much. I, in turn, was dreaming of the ever elusive front seat.