Though most readers of this fair blog have never seen me behind the wheel of a vehicle in motion,* I have actually been in possession of a valid driver's license for six and a half years now. I just really, really, REALLY hate driving. I loathe driving. I fear driving. If I had my way I would be able to disaperate.
The only place I've ever driven extensively and thus feel comfortable driving is my hometown in northern Minnesota. I don't have to go on highways to get from here to there, which means no merging. I know these streets fairly well, which means no getting lost. And I'm dealing with fellow northern Minnesotans, which means no Crazy Cities Drivers.
But it's been years since I've had to drive on a regular basis. We're talking summer after freshman year of college here, coincidentally the last time I was home for more than 10 consecutive days.
And now there's all this ice and snow to contend with, not to mention the sun glaring off said ice and snow, not to mention trying to get up our shear cliff of a driveway slicked with said ice and snow. All this must be navigated in a 1995 red Dodge Grand Caravan with wounds on its sliding doors from an unfortunate confrontation with our back porch.**
But since I decided to move home to a city made for neither walkers nor bus riders, I have no choice but to mount my modern-day pony of rusted metal and ride her into the sunset.
*I recently posed behind the wheel of a stationary postal truck at the U.S. Postal Museum
**It doesn't really count as bad driving because I was on my way to see a friend in a hospital