Most people don't like to live in boxes. In fact, every time I have recently ventured into Salt Lake, I've heard at least one person living in a box who didn't much like the situation. Of course, cardboard does get soggy, and this man knew this. I don't doubt that he would love to have a more suitable situation. But he doesn't. Meanwhile, I (who has a perfectly comfortable home--well, perfectly comfortable when my dad isn't controlling the thermostat, anyway) have difficulties venturing outside my box.
But I am trying. Last week, I did something monumental for me. I wanted to flags to fly, Barbra Streisand to give her final concert (Again! Okay, that's a lie. I would prefer to see several million other musical acts before I listened to Babs in concert), people to give me a standing ovation as I walked past. I wanted overtures to play, bells to ring (in the non-death-tolling celebratory fashion, of course), and people to shower me with praise . . . because I signed up for driving school.
If you don't know me well, you obviously don't understand how huge this is. This is bigger than meeting J.K. Rowling in person. Bigger than getting a novel published. Bigger than an invitation to move out of state. I'm a turkey about cars.
Many years ago, a sitcom whose name I can't recall ran on the WB. (It was short-lived. And since it was both short-lived and on the WB, that means there are many, many to choose from. Thus the lack of remembrance.) Anyway, the daughter in the sitcom was ecstatic about learning how to drive. However, her father took every opportunity on lecturing that, "You are not just moving around in a fun vehicle. You are operating a vehicle of death!" I sympathized with that father. I was more a proponent of his ideas than his daughter's; I shuddered every time I saw someone my age get a license and then crash a car (I had the distinction of being one of the few sixteen-year-olds on the planet to crash the family van before even obtaining a license); I still stiffen--read instant rigor mortis--any time a car behind the one I'm traveling in gets too close.
In short, I'm a paranoiac. But I'm trying to overcome it! Look, I'll even practice:
Driving is fun. Driving is fun. I'm not operating a vehicle of death . . .
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1 comment:
What a stepping stone, or should I say "stepping pedal" for ya! I am excited and proud of you. You are adding "driver" to your long reportoire of credits to your name. Huzzah!
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