I don't know how well you know me, but if you're even remotely connected, you probably know that I don't drive. No, that's an understatement. It's more like I DON'T DRIVE. It's not just because I sold my car six years ago and used the capital to move to San Francisco. It's also because I'm TERRIFIED behind the wheel. Instant anxiety. White knuckles? Swerving into blind spots? Hitting curbs and forgetting to turn on headlights? These do not only describe Chinatown: they also describe common occurrences when Rona is behind the wheel.
Was it always this way? Was I a terror to all drivers in Oklahoma, too? Well, yes. But not in the aforementioned way. More in the 'flashing my lights while tailgating you because YOU'RE NOT GOING THIRTY OVER THE SPEED LIMIT LIKE I AM' sort of way. I could clear the entire fast lane on a highway within seconds. Was this the safest way to drive? Probably not. But it was definitely the fastest, and when you have a two hour journey down the sweeping plains to see Gramma and you have a v8 with 350 horsepower, well, you don't waste time.
So what changed when I moved to California? To start with, they have one-way streets. Lots of them. In Tulsa, you encountered one way streets 'downtown,' which was a tiny and deserted place. Also, here in San Francisco you have to parallel park everywhere. Which is something I happened to fail on my driver's test. Twice. And the Bay Area has more highways in ten square miles than I've seen my entire life, highways with many, many lanes, and tight ones, with fast-moving cars in close proximity, switching and swerving and blinking and not blinking. Basically, my worst nightmare. How can I dominate THAT chaos?
Until tonight.
It started because I'm dogsitting the Nut for a week. This usually involves some minor street driving in the family car to get me to work and the Nut to his dogpark. This I can handle--I have figured out a way to make it to my job making only right hand turns, and the dogpark is right down the road, where we take a similarly mapped Safe Journey. But tonight...Peanut's parents needed a ride to a friend's house on their way out of town, meaning I would be driving the car back home.
On the highway.
My first highway in almost six years.
To say I was nervous is an understatement. It was more like, I was SUPER nervous. (I'm trying to underplay the level of my anxiety in case Kim and Phil read this later and think, 'Oh dear God, we let this girl behind the wheel of our car with our dog in the passenger seat??') But let's just say, I MIGHT have put on a Depends in case there was an accident.
But then, after Kim and Phil went into their friend's house, I got in the car. I carefully adjusted my mirrors, and pulled delicately away from the curb after checking for traffic from any possible direction. I made full stops at the stop signs as I traveled through the neighborhood, turning on my blinker an exact 100 feet before every turn. Then it was time...time to leave this manicured residential driving paradise and turn onto the access ramp of the highway. I did so cautiously, examining every sign I passed as though it held the meaning of life. And then...I did it. I MERGED ONTO THE HIGHWAY. And I didn't die! And then I moved into the second lane. AND THERE WAS ROOM FOR ME THERE, TOO! Nobody was honking at me! I turned on my blinker, and PEOPLE LET ME IN--unlike back home, where a blinker means 'speed up, there's a jerk trying to get in front of you.' I had my hands at ten and two. I was checking my mirrors every eight seconds. I was ON FIRE. I actually went TWO MILES OVER THE SPEED LIMIT AT ONE POINT. Oh, yes. I OWNED that highway. I STOMPED IT. It is now WEEPING from my mastery.
Sixteen minutes later, I was pulling smoothly into my parking space back at the Loft. As my pounding heart gradually slowed to 200 beats a minute, I calmly wiped the sweat off the steering wheel, turned down the tunes, slid out of the car, then called Kim and Phil to tell them Peanut and I were home safely. Nonchalantly: 'Oh, yeah, it was nothin'...'
Was it always this way? Was I a terror to all drivers in Oklahoma, too? Well, yes. But not in the aforementioned way. More in the 'flashing my lights while tailgating you because YOU'RE NOT GOING THIRTY OVER THE SPEED LIMIT LIKE I AM' sort of way. I could clear the entire fast lane on a highway within seconds. Was this the safest way to drive? Probably not. But it was definitely the fastest, and when you have a two hour journey down the sweeping plains to see Gramma and you have a v8 with 350 horsepower, well, you don't waste time.
So what changed when I moved to California? To start with, they have one-way streets. Lots of them. In Tulsa, you encountered one way streets 'downtown,' which was a tiny and deserted place. Also, here in San Francisco you have to parallel park everywhere. Which is something I happened to fail on my driver's test. Twice. And the Bay Area has more highways in ten square miles than I've seen my entire life, highways with many, many lanes, and tight ones, with fast-moving cars in close proximity, switching and swerving and blinking and not blinking. Basically, my worst nightmare. How can I dominate THAT chaos?
Until tonight.
It started because I'm dogsitting the Nut for a week. This usually involves some minor street driving in the family car to get me to work and the Nut to his dogpark. This I can handle--I have figured out a way to make it to my job making only right hand turns, and the dogpark is right down the road, where we take a similarly mapped Safe Journey. But tonight...Peanut's parents needed a ride to a friend's house on their way out of town, meaning I would be driving the car back home.
On the highway.
My first highway in almost six years.
To say I was nervous is an understatement. It was more like, I was SUPER nervous. (I'm trying to underplay the level of my anxiety in case Kim and Phil read this later and think, 'Oh dear God, we let this girl behind the wheel of our car with our dog in the passenger seat??') But let's just say, I MIGHT have put on a Depends in case there was an accident.
But then, after Kim and Phil went into their friend's house, I got in the car. I carefully adjusted my mirrors, and pulled delicately away from the curb after checking for traffic from any possible direction. I made full stops at the stop signs as I traveled through the neighborhood, turning on my blinker an exact 100 feet before every turn. Then it was time...time to leave this manicured residential driving paradise and turn onto the access ramp of the highway. I did so cautiously, examining every sign I passed as though it held the meaning of life. And then...I did it. I MERGED ONTO THE HIGHWAY. And I didn't die! And then I moved into the second lane. AND THERE WAS ROOM FOR ME THERE, TOO! Nobody was honking at me! I turned on my blinker, and PEOPLE LET ME IN--unlike back home, where a blinker means 'speed up, there's a jerk trying to get in front of you.' I had my hands at ten and two. I was checking my mirrors every eight seconds. I was ON FIRE. I actually went TWO MILES OVER THE SPEED LIMIT AT ONE POINT. Oh, yes. I OWNED that highway. I STOMPED IT. It is now WEEPING from my mastery.
Sixteen minutes later, I was pulling smoothly into my parking space back at the Loft. As my pounding heart gradually slowed to 200 beats a minute, I calmly wiped the sweat off the steering wheel, turned down the tunes, slid out of the car, then called Kim and Phil to tell them Peanut and I were home safely. Nonchalantly: 'Oh, yeah, it was nothin'...'
1 comment:
yay. good job!!
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