Driving Disability

If you know me at all, you are well aware of the sad fact that I drive like a one-armed, eighty-year-old who's forgotten her dementia pills and is legally blind in both eyes, (I actually am legally blind).

It all started in drivers education when I was fifteen:

There were two driving instructors. One was the football coach, a portly jolly man with a dead-tooth and a Big Gulp, and the other was Mr. Rosser; the freshly divorced social studies teacher that reminded me of Mr. Burns from the Simpsons, except with a southern accent.

Obviously, I was assigned to take my classes with Mr. Rosser, and my driving-nightmare began.

I was already extremely nervous, and before I really had a chance to hit anything, Mr. Rosser was asking if I was "some kind of an idiot" and slamming on his set of brakes (I had yet to locate my own set).

An hour into my lesson, I began to think that perhaps I was some kind of driving idiot, and started to develop an intense fear and aversion to getting behind the wheel.

"So I guess you decided it was best not to stop at that stop sign?" Rosser spat at me, when the tiny Ford Escort sped past the red hexagon into the Arby's parking lot. I was on the verge of tears and my legs felt like linguine.


We went inside, Mr. Rosser and my driving buddy (no real recollection of who he was, just a faceless character along for the ride) ordered, I sat alone in the booth, trembling. They returned, and Mr. Rosser unfolded his wax-paper to reveal two dry bun halves. If I questioned his humanity before, I was completely at a loss by this point. Anyone who goes into a fast food restaurant, especially one as sub-par as Arby's -- where their bread is probably made from cardboard and mouse-droppings, and orders just plain buns is someone I cannot relate to on any level. At least ask for ketchup or honey-mustard to dip the barren, dehydrated halves and make them a tiny bit less taxing for your body to ingest...

Needless to say, I didn't do so well in the course, and he recommended many more hours of practice, which I decided not to go through with because the very thought of driving gave me anxiety.

I didn't get my license until I was eighteen and the tiny guy passed me, despite the fact that my three-point turn adopted two extra points and a squished safety cone.

I feel obligated to confess that in addition to my anxiety linked to the physical act of driving, I'm also handicapped when it comes to directions and finding my bearings. (It's a constant ongoing search).

I often discover that I've been taking a much longer route to a place that's quite close just because I wanted to stay on roads that were familiar. A drive to Ollie Wallie's bounce-palace that takes a normal person fifteen minutes, takes me forty-five minutes, the maps application on my phone, the fingernails on my right hand and 20 mg of ADD meds.

Big intersections and one-way streets terrify me. If you ever see an extremely dirty, black Jeep Liberty stopped at a light with the front-half of the car in the turning lane, the back-half still in the lane to go straight, the light to go straight turns green, and you are stuck behind the dirt-caked ass of the jeep -- please don't honk or yell things out of your window, it's probably me; I've just figured out that I'm supposed to turn down that road -- your frustrated honking frightens me, and I have cloth seats.