Driving Myself Nuts
by Karen Williams | August 02, 2007 - Seminole Chronicle
I rarely drive a car these days, because I rarely have a car to drive. My Mitsubishi Mirage is aptly named, for it now seems a mere phantom image.
Since my teenage daughter uses the car much of the time, I'm resigned to life as a homebody. That's not all bad, of course, for it allows me to shuffle around in bunny slippers and raid the 'fridge with the slightest provocation.
When the car briefly returns home, I pause to admire its sleek, aerodynamic design, and I marvel at its roomy interior that holds countless discarded drink cups and sandwich wrappers.
If I must go to the grocery store, I ask permission. "Can I borrow the car?" I plead nervously. "I'll come straight home when I'm done."
"Well, OK," Emily replies. "But don't play that Tiny Tim music too loud. It'll damage your hearing." We have fun with this role reversal. And I'll have even more fun if I can reverse who makes the car payment and who gets a free ride.
Despite diminished time on the road, I signed up for an online driver's class, for it seemed imperative that I keep my skills sharp for those road trips to the market. Thankfully, my insurance company reduces my premium if I take such a course. (You'd think they'd waive parental premiums entirely. Don't they know that parents take a back seat - or, rather, no seat - to a teenage driver?)
The drivers' course began with a wake-up call: "The highways of today are vastly different from when you started to drive," implying that there are now far more cars and far fewer horses and chariots. I began to feel old.
They warned that drivers in my age bracket may fail to yield the right of way, fail to make proper lane changes, and fail to understand that certain hand gestures from other drivers are not a form of friendly greeting. I began to feel like an old failure.
The online instructor said that drivers such as myself might forget to scan at least a quarter mile or a city block ahead of them, causing errors that threaten life, limb and telephone poles. I began to feel like an old failure who was scared.
The instructor then described various developments with which we relics should become familiar, including something called "weave lanes" that serve as both entrance and exits on freeways - so named, I suppose, because you might as well weave your shroud if you plan to use them.
Then there were freeway lanes that are sometimes marked "open" with a little green arrow and sometimes marked "closed" with a little red "x," indicating, I guess, that traffic would now be coming at you rather than going with you. Don't scare me like that.
Another new development is roundabouts.
"Roundabouts?" I gasped. "The same road design used with dismal results in England? The circular driving perplexity that so confused the Brits, they let the sun set on their Empire?"
"Yes," the online instructor seemed to grunt. "Deal with it."
"Look, buddy," I roared, "I don't have to deal with it because I rarely get a chance to drive. And now, thanks to you and your instruction, I'm extremely happy about that!"
As far as I'm concerned, Emily can have that car - lock, stock, and four barrel carbs. If I get bored and antsy, I'll watch the travel channel. Groceries? We'll live off the land or order pizza.
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Copyright 2007, Karen Williams
