I have a permit. I got it in May, and I thought, at the time of course, it was a blessing from the highest levels of the holy. I drove around in a parking lot or two, did a few quick neighborhood trips....and then....
Parents are funny. You think you have them all figured out. I mean you've lived with them for fifteen, sixteen, sixty-two years right? Wrong. You know nothing about them. For instance, I had no idea my mother believed that there is a brake on the dash board...on the passenger side... I don't think there actually is a brake there, but it doesn't stop her from leaning back in her seat and pumping it while yelling directions in a high-pitched, we're-going-to-die kind of voice.
My dad is also fun to drive with. He gets all comfy and cranks music I detest and sings along. So here I am, freaking out about the road, and there he is - practicing for an American Idol audition he is much too old for.
And you know the kicker? I mean the real injustice here? I'm actually a decent driver. They say that all the time (when they're not singing their hearts out or beating the living shabooly out of the dashboard). Oh, yes - sweet freaking out.
Not that I don't freak out too. I do. ANYWAY, yesterday was my first excursion on the 405 during rush hour. The 90 was a piece o'cake and then we merged...dun...dun...DUH. Actually, it wasn't that bad. And my mother, to her credit, was relaxed as Barbie during heart surgery. I was singing along to Jack Johnson when I wasn't gritting my teeth into oblivion.
The moral for today: have someone else's parents teach you how to drive.
Love you Mom and Dad!
May your coffee be strong, your passions electric, and your laughter easy.