I have been driving people crazy my whole life. But since I got my driver’s license at the tender age of 16, I have been driving them in my car.

That changed recently when I had the rare opportunity to be driven myself. And although I was sitting in the front passenger seat, it made me — much to the annoyance of my wife, Sue, who was behind the wheel of her car — a backseat driver.

It was delicious payback for all the criticism I’ve received from countless passengers over the years.

Sue, for example, has always said I drive too fast. Our younger daughter, an aspiring Formula 1 champion, thinks I drive too slow.

Yet, in 55 years of obeying (usually) the rules of the road, I have been in only two accidents, neither of which was my fault.

One time my car’s brakes failed at an intersection and I bowled into two other vehicles, leaving the 7-10 split.

Nobody was hurt, but one of the drivers wanted to know what happened.

“Those are the brakes,” I explained.

The other time, a guy driving in the opposite direction at a traffic light, which was green, suddenly cut in front of me and went the wrong way down a one-way street.

Again, nobody was hurt.

When I walked over to his car and asked why he made such a boneheaded move, he said, “My GPS told me to turn left.”

I said, “If you had been looking at the road instead of your GPS, you would have seen two things: (a) an arrow indicating you were going the wrong way and (b) me.”

Yes, there have been speeding tickets, but that’s only because I was going with the flow of traffic. My daughter, though not Sue, would understand.

So this time it was a welcome change to put the shoe on the other lead foot. And it just happened to belong to Sue, who actually has a feather foot because she’s a Sunday driver. And it was Saturday.

My first warning came right after we had buckled up.

“Be careful backing out of the driveway,” I said. And with good reason because our street is plagued by vehicular maniacs who routinely blow through the stop sign in front of our house.

“Who’s driving, you or me?” Sue asked.

It was a fair question, but I didn’t mind because Sue turned out to be a good driver, even though I agree with our daughter that she goes too slow. I wouldn’t have been surprised if we had been passed by a kid on a tricycle.

Still, the ride — to, ironically, our daughter’s house — was very enjoyable.

“I’m getting a chance to see things I normally don’t notice when I’m driving,” I told Sue.

“Like what?” she wondered.

“Pedestrians, red lights, stuff like that,” I replied.

She shot me a quizzical look.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” I instructed.

Since the day was beautiful, I also noticed birds, trees and a farm stand with a sign that read: “Pick your own.”

I suggested stopping so I could add the word: “Nose.”

Sue kept going.

I had a few little criticisms, like how she wasn’t watching out for idiots who I knew (not from personal experience, mind you) were plotting to get in a turn lane and cut in front of us when the light changed.

But otherwise, there were no complaints. In fact, I said, “You can drive from now on. And I am going to buy you a chauffeur’s cap.”

“Forget it,” Sue stated emphatically. “You’re the worst backseat driver ever.”

When we got to our daughter’s house, she wondered what took us so long.

“Mom drove,” I told her.

“How was Dad as a passenger?” our daughter asked.

Sue sighed and said, “He drove me crazy.”

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