The generational divide is getting a ride
Kevin drove all five of us to my niece’s wedding. He had a nice seven-passenger SUV, so we were happy he jumped at the chance to drive my gang from our Long Island hotel to the venue.
As we were about to hop into the vehicle, I realized the wayyy back seat would be difficult to squeeze into, depending on one’s attire. I surveyed our group. My husband and sons were in suits, and my daughter-in-law was a darling picture in a chic cocktail dress that was not designed for seat acrobatics.
Kevin chuckled, maybe with astonishment, when I immediately volunteered to hurdle myself into the third row. I figured I was wearing the most contortion-friendly outfit of our group, an Audrey Hepburn-ish sheath with some stealthy stretch fabric and a kick pleat.
Maybe it was my age, or maybe it was my pearls. I just didn’t look like a back seat diver. Regardless, I think I impressed ol’ Kevo with my head-to-toe dexterity. And I’m sure all of us impressed him with our pre-wedding banter, because his chortles continued during our 10-minute ride. We’re a fun bunch.
Have I mentioned not one of us had ever met Kevin before? And the odds are slim we’ll ever see him again.
This was the inaugural Uber experience for me and my husband. Our sons had the apps and seemed a bit eye-roll-y that their parents were both clueless and hesitant to hop into 2018.
Waiting for that first pick-up went against my sensibilities.
“He’ll be here in four minutes,” my youngest announced. We rushed outside the lobby.
I had a million questions as I tried to peek at my boy’s phone. “How do they screen these Uber humans?”
“Three minutes.”
“Is that his picture? How do you pay him? What are we doing?”
“Two minutes.”
“What if this guy is a wacko? What if he has no criminal record but decides to snap right now and drive us to an abandoned light house? Also, how much should we tip?”
I was reassured the dude had excellent reviews. Well, so do fat-free Fig Newtons, I thought. The public cannot be trusted.
But our first cyber-summoned ride worked out beautifully. The parental units had been officially ushered into Uberville. And as our visit back east continued we summoned several more Ubers via the kids’ phones. It was like a rolling wine-tasting, but with automotive air fresheners. The varietals were nose boggling. It seems rider reviews have forced many entrepreneurs on wheels to mask the ghosts of Taco Bell orders past.
What impressed me was the drivers were friendly, and at least with us managed to hold off on snapping/driving to abandoned lighthouses. Also, the fees seemed reasonable. But the best part was the adventure of it all. Who’s on their way? What kind of car? Will we survive?
I felt so hip I considered getting the app.
But then I realized I’d have to jam my phone memory with another thing. Too many times this year I’ve read the following words: iPhone Storage Full. You do not have enough storage to take more photos.
Sure, I could upgrade my cell. The truth is — brake screech — I’m demographically a N’Uber. (A scolding French contraction I just made up for “non, non, non Uber!”)
With clear eyes, I look at my reflection in the rear-view mirror and see a Kansas dwelling suburban mom with a safe, reliable car. I’m 150 percent more likely to take off on a Target run than need a hired ride for bar hopping. I have a good sense of direction and I’m not afraid to use my turn signals.
Some might consider me a modern day Aunt Bea, but remember, when called upon I can somersault to the third row of any Uber ride like a five-star Ninja. Backward and in heels. Just ask Kevin.
Reach Denise Snodell at stripmalltree@gmail.com or on Twitter @DeniseSnodell
This story was originally published August 29, 2018 at 12:00 AM with the headline "The generational divide is getting a ride."