Hell Hath No Fury as a Teenager with Power Steering
By Kellie Head My teenage son, David, enrolled in the Drivers Education course offered by the local High School, but before unleashing him to what was sure to be a frazzled instructor, I decided to teach him the driving basics in the family car -- not the new one. David, a tall, lanky basketball player, found it necessary to contort his limbs in order to squeeze behind the wheel of our small economy car. This proved to be quite a challenge. Fortunately, the car came equipped with a sunroof in case he needed extra room to stretch. We began with the five-minute seat adjustment ritual. Apparently, he thought the Craftmatic Adjustable Bed Company had manufactured the car seats. After a beautifully choreographed dance with the seat--up, back, tilt, no tilt, and up and back again--he ended up in the very same position in which he had started. Next, David conducted a rear-view mirror alignment. While he paused to admire the peach fuzz on his upper lip, I cleverly placed a block of wood under the gas pedal, preventing the "pedal to the METAl" scenario. With my hand properly poised on the emergency brake, just in case, we were ready to hit the open road. That is, the open road, two mailboxes, a trash barrel, and the neighbors' azaleas. Once out of the neighborhood and the presence of small children, I could finally loosen my grip on the door handle and direct David to the nearest parking lot -- the one with a 24 hour pharmacy so I could refill my prescription of Valium if need be. Thankfully, I had the forethought to warn other drivers with a makeshift "student driver" sign affixed to the top of the car. Thank you notes are still pouring in from grateful motorists around our community. As we stopped at the first intersection, David caught a glimpse of the schools’ Homecoming Queen in the car next to us. This sighting instinctively caused him to flexed his biceps in hopes of gaining her attention (all the while leaving his hands at 10 and 2 o’clock). I suppose she may have been impressed had she not been simultaneously talking on the cellular phone and applying lipstick in her rear view mirror. The next mile or two went fairly smooth and we arrived at our destination unharmed and with very little driver-induced turbulence. I pointed him toward the back of the plaza parking lot to learn parallel parking between two trash dumpsters. At least we wouldn’t have to exchange insurance cards in the event of a fender bender with an already bludgeoned trash receptacle. Heading home, I reluctantly agreed to travel via interstate. Merging with traffic terrified me more than the thought of being assimilated by the Borg from Star Trek. I nearly slammed my foot through the passenger floorboard in an attempt to stop the car and avoid certain death. At one point I inadvertently shrieked as we narrowly escaped collision with a mega-ton semi truck. I found little comfort in the words "items in mirror are closer than they appear" while I watched another big rig gain on us. I aged a lifetime that afternoon and the mere mention of it still conjures up visions of American servicemen dodging shrapnel in war torn France, during WWI. Until modern science discovers a drug more powerful than Prozac or I fall stricken with a debilitating long-term memory disease, my kids will have to settle for a city bus pass or a 15-speed mountain bike with racing stripes.
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