So, for those of you who don’t know, I finally got my license a few months ago. And it feels fine, really very fine, but in two different ways. On the one hand I feel like I’ve finally entered the world of adulthood. I mean, it was embarrassing that I couldn’t drive my kid to a playdate or the library. It was embarrassing when I had to show up at all my doctor’s appointments with another person — usually Z who’d had to interrupt his day and drive me there. Even more embarrassing when Z wasn’t around and I had to bum a lift from another mother, or haul us onto the bus, or take a taxi (taxi-taking being a social stigma in the places I’ve lived, unlike how it is in real cities). I felt like a kid. And now I feel competent, and grown-up.
But then there’s the other hand. And here’s where the problem is. I spent my teenage years sitting in passenger seats or back seats: Chris was driving, or Tami — whom I remember as a natural driver from the moment her hands touched the wheel. An awful lot of driving went on, much of it in combination with beer and rock and roll, but the thing is: I didn’t do any of it. But now I have my license! And it’s early summer! And the urge to bomb down the road with a beer in my hand is strong. And now someone’s left some Hendrix in the CD player in the car — I swear not me! but there it is. And Eila loves it too. And I find myself doing 80 clicks on a city street (that’s 50 for my Merkin friends), blasting Purple Haze.
See, I was supposed to get this out of my system at the appropriate age.