So, my car shit the bed this weekend, and I had to have it towed to the shop and I was without wheels and totally reliant on Boston's sad, sad excuse for public transportation all weekend long. I got it back yesterday. It works now, as it should after 500 BUCKS worth of repairs. Unfortuately, during the night someone sideswiped it out in front of my house and now it has a gash in the side.
This is okay, really, because it's just further proof of something that I have always known -- namely, that I am not meant to drive a car. I've never really taken to driving in a big way. When I was 16, all my friends had their license eligibility date circled in red on their calendars. Mine was crossed out in funereal black. I had no idea where my car was on the road, and I drove at 15 miles an hour. A driver's ed teacher actually told me that I drove like a stoned person. Also, I have no sense of direction. At any given time, I can remember how to drive to about three places. If I learn a new route, I forget one of the ones I already know.
A couple years ago I read an article about Ray Bradbury that said that he had never learned to drive because all he could think about was the accidents he might cause behind the wheel. So perhaps the problem is one of too much imagination. Anyway, like horses, cars know when you don't really like them. Mine is on strike apparently, and won't give up until I either go broke, or until I cave in and move to a city with reliable subway systems and forget about driving altogether.
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