The backseat driver (BSD), the Co-Trainer. They get on my nerves. Immensely. Let me give you some examples of what I’m driving at, oh, backseat driver.
- Earlier this year, I was working with Ukrainian refugees, speaking to them in Russian. Backseat driver reprimanded me for speaking to the refugees “in the enemy’s language.” I wrote BSD a lengthy email about the Holodomor, comparative Slavonic philology and even a British rock group called The Ukrainians. BSD’s reply: “I still think you’re wrong.”
- Today was a mutual friend’s birthday. BSD asked me three time how old she was. Thrice I politely declined to answer. It’s bad manners to ask how old a lady is. Does this need to stated to stop the fisherwife/Wascherweib questions.
- This month, following extensive consultation with my GP, Schatz (who has a good idea about medicine) and a consultant diabetologist, I had my medication changed, with short-term side-effects. BSD bombarded me with unsolicited “advice” based on his googling medical research. Finally I told BSD, “With all due respect, BSD, you are neither a doctor, nor in any way, shape or form, do you have any medical expertise on this matter.”
Long live staying in your own lane!