Driving Miss Crazy
by Karen Williams | September 02, 2005
Seminole Chronicle
A friend told me how her mother moved to a large city and was panic-stricken when trying to merge onto the freeway.
"How could anyone be so clueless?" I responded, choking on the words. For I, too, was once afraid of traffic.
My phobia stemmed from high school driver's ed, where we were required to compile a scrapbook of newspaper clippings about car wrecks - the grislier the better. We also viewed films of explosive crashes - the world's first reality show right in my classroom, resulting in an extreme makeover of my psyche.
Once I got my driver's license, I drove so slowly that street sweepers would pass me by, as blazing infernos from driver's ed smoldered in my mind. You could call it a fear of frying.
Later, raising kids in Oregon, I taxied them around in our green camper van ("Vanessa Van Go") but refused to drive past the city limits. I was convinced we were destined for charbroiling if I drove over 35.
Preparing to move to Florida a few years ago, I knew there could be traffic and that could spell trouble. Since gator-back-travel wasn't a viable option, I decided to address my fear of driving and hire a hypno-therapist. Halfway through the first session, it was clear she had confused me with someone who wanted to stop smoking. The therapy was less than successful, but I did conquer my fear of cigarettes.
After I moved to Winter Springs, my son Joel came home from college via plane and taxi to find me doing more biking than Lance Armstrong.
"You've got to get a car, Mom," he commanded. "What if Grandma gets sick and you need to take her to a doctor?"
"You're right," I admitted, furious that doctors seldom make house calls. I phoned an area car dealership, and a salesman delivered us to his lot, where we picked out a sedan. Then my moment of truth came as the salesman told me to take a test drive.
Frantic, I whispered to Joel, "You do it!"
"Nuh-uh," he said, arms folded. "You gotta learn to drive here!"
With a casual smile, I turned to the salesman.
"Oh, why don't you take us for a little spin. As a passenger, I can acquaint myself with the radio, window openers, and such."
He looked puzzled. "Oh no, you'll want to drive. Hop in."
Giving Joel a withering look, I took the wheel and off we went - the three of us - into blurs of traffic, toward the nearby freeway that waited like a vulture to gnaw on my carcass. Wouldn't you know, half the cars in Central Florida chose that exact moment to be where I was trying to go. But somehow I managed the ultimate accomplishment - I merged. Closing my eyes helped a lot.
We bought the car, and Joel demanded I drive home. Then he mentioned, "You'll need to take me to the airport when I go back to school."
"Oh no, I can't," I cried in disbelief. "I'm barely ready to solo to 7-Eleven!"
A week later found me all too predictably driving Joel to the Orlando airport. Once again he had won, but only after I insisted we take various practice runs, where I got lost seven times and executed many untimely lane-changes.
But as a result of the grueling practice, my fears began to subside, and I'm proud to announce I hardly leave I-4 these days. Sure, I tend to go 35 in the left lane, but at least I'm out there.
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Copyright 2005, Karen Williams
