Earlier this year we traded in our old Jeep and bought a new one.
She’s amazing. Her name is Rubi and I love her so, so much. She is bright orange and so happy looking, and she has a leather interior, so the dog fur is so much more manageable, and it’s so freaking easy to take her top off, which I realize sounds really sexist and terrible now that I’m personifying my car, but we all know what I mean, so let’s not freak out here. After all, just because she likes to go around topless in the warmer weather doesn’t make her any less of a respectable vehicle. She’s beautiful and she flaunts it.
There’s just one tiny problem... She’s a stick shift. And I never really learned how to drive a stick shift. I mean, I had a few lessons when I was a teenager, but none of my cars ever ended up being manual, so I never had to get used to it.
So now, the only car that The Mr and I have is only drivable by The Mr.
And now my vehicle feels even more sexist.
Because yesterday, my friends, I. DROVE. MY. CAR.
ON. THE. ROAD.
IT. WAS. AMAZING.
Pretty shortly after buying it back in January, The Mr took me to the school parking lot and we practiced there for a bit, but then winter kept happening and it just never really came up again. We both wanted me to learn and get comfortable, but it never felt necessary. I don’t really ever go places without The Mr very often and so I didn’t need to ever drive myself.
But there’s a strange sense of imprisonment that occurs when you can’t drive yourself places - even if you don’t have to. The fact that I couldn’t go meet a friend for coffee without getting a ride from my husband was annoying.
So the other day I put my foot down, metaphorically speaking, and demanded to start putting my foot down literally speaking.
Not that he fought me on it. He doesn’t like having to chauffeur me around either.
So yesterday we were leaving church and he said “Hey, you wanna drive home?”
And so I did.
And I didn’t stall the car once.
And I felt so gosh darn free.