Er, well... perhaps I have a tiny bit of a heavy foot. I blame our steep driveway which gives me a kick start before I hit the road. But in the same week I was labelled "a rocket" and "a hurricane" by family members who happened to be along for the ride.
I never go too far over the speed limit: just enough... because I am a great driver.
Once, as I pulled off the highway I noticed a policeman with his motorcycle standing at the stop light, waving me down. Did I feel nervous? Guilty?
No. I assumed something had happened, perhaps an escaped convict, and he needed my assistance. It couldn't possibly be me. I am a great driver.
Mr. Man calls me something else.
When I was 16 all you had to do was pass this written "exam" to be able to drive with your parents. It just so happened a girlfriend sat nearby, blinking codes to me as the instructor looked the other way. I raced out with my 365 and entered the world of driving. I was on hyper-drive, blond, and fearless.
Years later, my best friend said she had been terrified every time I drove her somewhere. When asked why she didn't tell me, she answered, "But you were cool. So cool."
Mom and Dad signed me up for driver's ed; the cheap version through the highschool. The instructor was someone doing community service and we ate him alive. All we wanted was to get behind the wheel. When I finally got my hands-on lessons, the instructor realized I could go forwards, but not backwards. A sort of backwards driving dyslexia.
Nor could I park.
In fact, throughout my driver's test I failed every parking test: parking on a hill, parallel parking, parking between yellow lines. I even parked wrong when we got back to the ministry's parking lot.
But I passed. He said, "As long as you keep driving, you're fine. Just don't stop."
In other words, I am a great driver.
But he must not have tested me on driving backwards since I have reversed into quite a few things over the years. My in-laws love to point out that I have backed into my sister-in-law's car (making quite a dent), my sister's car (who ignored the dent), my sister-in-law's again, and then my sister's again. (And no, not all on the same day).
The other day my son came in the house and exclaimed that someone had shoved mud into the back of our car. I ran out and sure enough the tail pipe, the trailer hitch, and major parts of the back bumper were filled with dirt and grass, and some had fallen on the driveway.
I searched around the yard and in the car for other damage, but even the change drawer was untouched. It was a random act of violence and I had stupidly left the gates open the night before.
Sigh. "Don't tell your dad," I said, "he'll just blow it out of proportion." There was nothing I couldn't tidy up and no damage had been done.
But I forgot.
That night, there was a huge, red Mr. Man freaking out in the backyard about vandals, etc. The kids ran and hid, and every neighbourhood teenager felt a shiver up their backs.
Then suddenly, all was quite.
He came in the house and approached me where I was working and trying to ignore the commotion.
"Did you back into something?" he calmly asked,
Bing! A light went off in my head. "Um, yeah," remembering a certain embankment I hit the night before, "I guess I did."
And he turned on his heels, left the room, mumbling words like, "crazy", "insensible", "constant", and I went back to what I was doing, truthfully unsurprised by my actions. Twenty years of driving, and I am still that 16-year-old, on hyper-drive, blond (highlights) and fearless.
And so I keep on driving forward....
No comments:
Post a Comment