Women who don't drive kind of fascinate me. Maybe because not so very long ago, I was one. Ever a reluctant driver, I didn't bother to get my license until age 21. Sometimes I wonder why I bothered then.
I know exactly two women who don't drive at all. One is my aunt. She used to drive back in the day, but my now she gets around courtesy of my uncle, grandfather, and coworkers. The other, the manager at the restaurant where I worked the winter before last. Thanks to friends and her life partner, she manages to live in the middle of nowhere sans car. I don't blame them at all. Honestly, driving makes me feel like this:
You might remember back in May, the newly deceased Corolla (RIP) was replaced by the sporty Subaru Baja. The Subaru Baja with a manual transmission. The manual transmission that I had a very limited idea of how to operate.
Over the summer, thanks to various independent berry picking voyages, I've gotten really good at driving Andy's schmancy truck, but driving what is technically my car still fills me with dread. All summer, I've basically been a woman who doesn't drive. Why fight with the sticky clutch and risk my life when I could just have Andy chauffeur me around my errands?
But there come a time when the codependency has to end. When the grocery store is an hour away and your and your significant other haven't had a shared day off in, oh, I don't know, a month, and since things like eggs and milk are nice to have on hand, there sometimes comes a time when a solo trip to town is necessary.
Today I drove to town. There was a commentary to record, some groceries to get and the car needed gas. The drive wasn't pretty and it wasn't flawless, but I made it and once again, I've joined the ranks of women who do drive.