I hate driving. OK, maybe it’s more like fear. I didn’t learn to drive until I was in college – Michael taught me. In high school I took driver’s ed, but I didn’t really have an opportunity to practice, so I didn’t really start to feel comfortable with the whole thing, well… ever. I was 21 years old before I ever had a license. I was (and still am) determined to live a life where other people drive me places. I cannot wait until I am declared too senile to drive. Maybe I can fake it.
I also have this obsession about what happens if I ever get into an accident of any sort. Michael wouldn’t get mad at me, so that’s not really the issue. My biggest fear is that someone will jump out in front of my car, I won’t have time to stop, and I’ll hit him. The fantasy then goes on to include the notion that there were no witnesses, but the cops don’t believe that it wasn’t my fault, then I spend my life in prison because someone decided to commit suicide on my bumper.
I had to run a few errands today, and I put Carrot in the car with me just in case I got a call that she needed to come in for her spay appointment. She was adopted yesterday, but there was a lot of confusion about whether there were going to be any spays/neuters at the shelter until after the holiday on Monday. The staff sent her home with me so that she wouldn’t catch a shelter cold or get too cage crazy while she waited. No big deal, I want to spend every moment I can with her before she goes to live in her new home (which I am convinced will be better than mine – now that’s saying something). If I didn’t get the call that she was to be spayed tomorrow, no big deal – she would have gotten her first car ride that didn’t end up at the vet. It’s a good way to desensitize cats to the car.
So, anyway, Carrot and I were in the car, backing out of the garage. The problem with driving backward out of an enclosed space is that you cannot see if anyone is coming on the sidewalk. Too many people think that they will just walk past a garage door that just opened and expect the car not to hit them. That happened to me today. A guy wearing a huge backpack and a pair of headphones just walked past my garage as I was backing up. As soon as I saw him, I hit the brakes (I wasn’t moving that quickly anyway, but still). He barely looked up and gave me a dirty look before ambling past who-knows-how-many other open garages with cars backing out. Incidents like these always trigger my terrifying “what if” fantasy. How on earth am I going to explain to the police why I backed over a guy while coming out of my garage? What’s more, what do I tell them about the fact that I have a kitten in the car and a purse full of pretty big kitchen knives. You see, I was on my way to drop them off to be sharpened, but I am sure the fictional cop would have thought I was on my way out to fillet poor Carrot and kill random pedestrians as part of a psychotic serial murder plot. How do you live that down? Besides, I wouldn’t eat Carrot – I know what kinds of drugs she’s consumed in her lifetime. That, and I could never eat anything that I had watched exude diarrhea. <shiver>
So, the moral of the story is, “Don’t walk past an open garage – the driver can’t see you coming.” And she may have a purse full of knives.