With the exception of wine and my lovely, supportive, dear wife, most things get worse as they get older. It's called ageing. It's called life. It's called "get over it and accept the nasty, nasty fate that awaits us all." This is especially true of driving. After a certain point, you just suck at it. I'm not there, but the guy who almost hit me this morning is. In fact, I think he's past it. So to you, Mr. Gold Prius on 29th St., I say:
"Stop driving. Please. You're an old guy, and you don't have it like ya used to. I'm sure that as a young man, all the ladies from the block thought you were a terrific dancer, and maybe on the weekends, you won a couple races at the track, back when they let amateurs come take a crack. But now, you're just old. Old, white headed, and barely able to see over the steering wheel. THAT'S A PROBLEM. It's also a problem that you have never heard of a bike lane. I'm sure you thought it was something they built for you, being a proud member of "The Greatest Generation." It ain't. It's for me. A young, vigorous, speed demon. It's all for me, dude. Me and my kind. We may not be the "greatest," but were younger, and can probably take you in a fist fight."
"I'm not down on you for being old. My birthday is tomorrow, and I know what that means. And one day, my kids will tell me to get the hell of the street. But for now, it's you for whom the bell tolls, and the bell is saying, 'Please stop driving, old dude. Buying a Prius is a responsible choice, but not if you use it to crush innocent people.'"
Take a cab. You've earned it.