I’ve confessed before that I’m an obsessive blog reader. One blog I often enjoy is Lucy The Valiant. I think this chick is pretty adorable. She’s a teacher (I was a teacher – what was I thinking?) and she’s madly in love with her husband (I’m madly in love with mine and counting the hours until he comes home again– approx 33.).
Her post today was a truth or dare. Since I’m quite certain that a good 60% of the liquids in my fridge are moldy, fermented or are now solids, I’ll take the truth. Her truth was a confession about driving, so I’ll post my confession here. I actually have two; one is a fairly amusing story about learning to drive, and the other is a truly horrible, incriminating, embarrassing story about something that happened shortly after I learned.
Story numero Uno: I began learning to drive at 15, just like every other kid I knew. My mama taught me to drive in a business park. It had traffic lights, signs and lanes, but very little actual traffic. It soon became time for me to take on the real road. I had mastered most of the skills needed for driving, but I still struggled with the left turn. I turned right several times with no problem. Next up, the left turn out of the neighborhood. Blinker, check. Clear sight in both directions, check. Turn. Oh no! Something wasn’t right. My mother was screaming for me to turn the wheel to the right, but I panicked. I parked. I had turned into on coming traffic and paralyzed with fear, parked the car and got out. I was now blocking both lanes of traffic, standing on the side of the road with both fists clinched tightly at my side while my mother yelled and pumped her fists while cars in both lane waited for this tiny, sobbing little girl to get back in her car and allow them to get on with their day. Nope! I refused. I did not get back into the vehicle until my mother got out and marched around to the driver’s side. Only then did I slink into the passenger seat. In hind sight, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d left me there. That afternoon I hung up my keys for a year. I didn’t care if I was the only one of my friends not driving. I knew I wasn’t ready.
The second story is horrible, terrible and only because I blog anonymously, am I willing to admit to this. To my mother-in-law: please don’t let this change how you feel about me. Your son did not marry a cold hearted criminal, just a easily panicked girl with poor depth perception.
I was 17 and newly licenced. I had finally mastered the left turn and was allowed foray outside of the neighborhood and local business park. After Leo’s worship band practice we headed to a restaurant for a late dinner. It was dark when I headed for home. Leo and his friends were older and without curfew, so I left alone. As I pulled out of my parking space in the poorly lit lot, I heard a loud sound just before my car stopped rolling. My stomach turned. I pulled forward. I got out to survey the damage. My car (mom’s car) showed nothing, I gave a cursory glance to the other car, but couldn’t see much of anything in the dark. I panicked, jumped in my car and drove quickly away. I have no idea if the other car suffered much damage. To this day, whenever I pass that restaurant parking lot I get a nervous, sicky feeling in my stomach. I’m sure I blush. I’m embarrassed and ashamed, but it does feel good to finally get that off my chest. Thanks y’all!
Now, if you dare, write some truth of your own. Leave it as a comment here, or write it on your own blog and leave me the link. I’d love to hear!