Saturday, August 16, 2014

DRIVING lesson
And no jokes, please; it was not for me.

As you know, I don't drive. My driving instructor gave me a driver's permit because he said I looked like his granddaugher. I had to promise him that I just wanted an ID that I could fit in my pocket when I went to bars so I could stop lugging my passport everywhere. I am probably the first driving student in history who had to pledge to never drive again. I almost killed six people during my practice exam. It is not exageration to say that I am driving phobic. A huge percentage of my nightmares involve myself being behind the wheel of a car that I can't control. I tried to conquer my fear again after T was born when I signed up for lessons in NYC. I was in one of those horrible auto school cars that bring out the worst in New Yorkers who see anyone who doesn't know what they're doing as an easy target. I know it has to do with control issues and blah blah blah. But I just don't like cars and my sense of spatial perception does not allow me to understand how big the car is and how much room I have to move in or how long it will take. So, as I always say: it is better for the world that I stay a passenger. That said, I would hate for T not to have the freedom and joy of being able to drive if she had to or (gasp) wanted to.

Obviously, when Stephen, whose spirit of adventure is alive and well (see swimming with parasites), gave T her first driving lesson, I hid under the bed.

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