The Terrifying Adventure Begins

I am in a bit of a funk. A happy funk, but a funk no less. I'm going to have to miss dance tonight for the select purpose of attending the dreaded DRIVER'S ED.

I had many questions about Driver's Ed.

First of all, who was this Driver? Why did he remain anonymous? Did he have a shameful past that caused him to assume the vague pseudonym "Driver"?

Second, why did he have Ed? Sounds like Ed has had some tough luck, having to become the possession of the mysterious Driver.

Third, why did this Ed need attending? Maybe Driver really was mean to him, so he needed tending to.

As compassionate as I am, I remained apprehensive as to whether I should attend this Driver's Ed. What if Driver came back? If he is anything the syntax suggests he is, he probably is a rather unlikeable fellow.

I shared these insights with my parents in order to elaborate on my previously unspoken apprehensions about attending the mysterious, cult-like gathering.

"It's Education. Driver's Education. You need to learn how to drive."

"Oh."

So, at the tender age of seventeen, I have been thrust into this...thing called Driver's Education. Because apparently it is generally thought improper to have a 23-year-old college grad being driven around by her mum.

First night (last night) went well. The teacher also suggested that we younglings be taken out by our parents to drive around in parking lots.

He said that it was for our benefit, reasoning that it wouldn't be fair to us to go from zero to 60-minute drives.
Ha.
What he failed to mention was that the whole "take your kids out first"dealy was, in fact, a cleverly-disguised self-preservation mechanism. As my patient mother discovered earlier this afternoon.

"Yeah, letting you drive in a parking lot first? Sounds like a great idea to me. We'll do it right before piano. "

I take piano in a lovely church building that is situated in a nicely large parkinglot that is generally either completely abandoned or swarming with old people (church meeting), children (garden club), or both.

As we drove to aforementioned parkinglot, Mum happily chatted about various things to remember while driving, pointing out targeting and steering methods and the like.

I noticed, however, that as we got closer to the lot, she grew progressively quieter.

"Now, if that garden club thingy is meeting..." she began nervously.
"I won't try driving. Got it, Mom. Yeah, I don't want to kill anybody today."
"Oh look! They aren't here!" she said happily. Her tone might have been a tad different had she known what was coming.

To set up the scene aptly in your brain, you must first understand our car, whose name is Flyer. Flyer is a lovely vehicle roughly the length and width of your average 747 jumbo jet, peanuts not included.

In addition to its girth, it is also rather high, making clear sight of the ground virtually impossible. Climb into the front seat, and you may as well be steering the Millenium Falcon for all you can see.

Our vehicular manslaughter dream machine also has the added benefit of eager gas pedals (more on that later) and a highly attuned steering system. Perfect for beginning drivers.

"Ok, now you're gonna put your foot on the brake, now put it in reverse, now STEEER and go around...no, no gas, don't worry about gas."

In this way, we executed a rather tipsy billion-point turn out of the parking space mum had piloted into.

"Well, you just totaled a few cars...if cars were there...but that's ok," said Mum, nervously.

I was feeling rather nervous, yet somewhat confident after executing the maneuver.

"Now, I want you to look at that rock ahead. You see the rock?"

"Mmmhmm.."

"So you're pointed towards the rock...then you'll go towards the r-"

Misinterpreting her directions, and eager to prove my abilities at driving straight ahead, I punched the gas.

Flyer happily obliged and we rocketed into action, pulling a few g's.
It was over in less than a second, but that second had been enough for Mum's voice to raise several octaves.

"Not the gas...NOT THE GAS!!"

Eager to make up for my mistake (and to avoid hitting the telephone pole), I slammed on the brakes. Flyer, annoyed that its first attempt at no-winged flight had been ended, angrily lurched to a stop.

I have never felt such joy for the simple pleasure of being still. Mum's lips were pulled taught in terror, her eyes bulging.

"I didn't say gas."
We then started laughing. Hysterically. Amazing what trauma can do.

We continued driving for the next half-hour. It went pretty smoothly, with the one exception of mistaking the gas pedal for the brake pedal. But, seeing as nothing was destroyed (excepting my mother's nerves and my hopes of ever driving), I consider this practice a success.

We're going driving again tomorrow!