I JUST HAD A FREAKIN’ DRIVING LESSON! Yes, me. Driving. Go ahead, laugh, it’s OK.
Apparently my 20 year procrastination was wearing a bit thin. My “We can’t afford lessons” and “I’ve got no time, what, with the kids and all’ line of bullshit was nipped in the bud by my resourceful husband.
Andy booked me a lesson.
Insert panic attack … NOW!
“Who with? Is it a guy or a girl? Young or old? Did they sound calm? Do they know about me? Maybe you should cancel, let me find someone, someone who knows I can’t drive. What day? Monday? Noooooo, no Mondays are no good, I’m too busy with work. Shit, shit, shit…..”
I’m not gonna get away with it. He’s gonna make me do it.
Allow me to explain
I would like to drive. I even have dreams where I’m driving. I have no idea what I’m doing, and a police bust is always imminent as I swerve all over the joint, but I get from A to B.
Reality though is that I would like to drive and be instantly awesome at it. Learning to maneuver a tonne of motorised metal on roads full of other tonnes of motorised metal scares the living shit out of me. I can barely cross a road on foot with my eyes open.
I missed out on seeing a bunch of shops in Bali because of my fear of roads. “Oh, look at that shop over there with exactly everything I’ve been looking for in it. Pity it’s on the other side of the road. Oh well, nevermind.”
Flash back to my pregnancy with Ruby, late in the year 2000. OK, I’m about to be a mum, I’m 25 and most of my friends have been driving for years. I better get this license. Right, let’s book a lesson. Lesson is booked, instructor arrives, I squeeze my fat arse into the drivers seat and start sobbing hysterically. The poor dude didn’t know what to do. I was sobbing, tear snot, dribbling. Lesson over.
Now here we are 2012. Living away from a big city, a mother of 3 with no more excuses.
Shit, why am I such a head case? I’m my own worst enemy.
Andy has even taken gears out of the equation this time and booked me an automatic lesson.
The guy arrives. Elderly, Canadian and poorly wigged. It’s distracting, this mop of haphazardly placed synthetic yarn atop his noggin.
STOP IT REBEL. Focus.
Alright, this car is unoffensive enough, here we go. He allows me no time to lose my shit, straight into it …
“That’s your gas, that’s your brake… drive…”
FUCK. This is really happening. The guy proceeds to recite his entire cheesy gag thesis.
SHUT UP DUDE! I DON’T KNOW WHAT I AM FUCKING DOING AND THERE ARE OTHER CARS ON THIS FUCKING ROAD YOU DICKHEAD…. OK, that was my internal dialog, in reality I was gripping that wheel like my last Twistie and nodding politely.
I can’t drive. I’m usually good at stuff and it screws my head that I’m not good at this. It’s ruining my grade point average.
Plus, I could die, or kill someone, or be seen… in public… in a learner car with Mr Toupe 2012.
One hour of several courses of the same route. I still can’t drive. Worse still, I have to do it again. Next week. Fuck.
That instructor was a dick. I never went back to his school of lame BUT I did find an awesome instructor, and managed to get my license without too much swearing. OK … there was a fair bit of swearing.