Oh see, you know how supposedly what goes around comes around? It’s like a bike wheel and a philsophy, both? It may be true.
On my bike commute in to work, there was pointing and laughing at the car stuck in traffic.
On the way home, there was a metal shard in my front tire and a wait for rescue from the same laughed at car.
Front tire says womp womp. I know what you’re saying. “That’s what you get for gloating.” (Karma enthusiasts) Or, “that’s what you get for not knowing how to fix a flat.” (Bicycle pragmatists.)
I hear you. But here’s what we’re working on first: drinking water while in motion; and starting with EITHER leg up, not just my left one. I don’t know why, I can’t start with my right. I have to spin the pedals around so the left one is on top. But as soon as I get those, I have the words for “flat tire” all translated and ready. You’ll see.
I have fulfilled my destiny. Precisely halfway through my Jesus Year, instead of loafing and fishing, I am finally filling the Cozy-Coupe shaped void in my spirit — by driving the adult-sized version.
SmartCars, y’all. It handles like a bumper car, has the get-up-and-go of an overhead projector and even though I actively hate driving — it’s fun. You are required to say, “Whee!” when you go over a speed bump. It takes 15 litres of gas to fill up the whole tank. That’s like 15 Diet Cokes.
Deprive a person the fifth-best-selling car in the US [EVEN] among real vehicles as a child, and eventually they will avenge that injustice. It’s tiny. It’s black. And it can park ANYWHERE IT WANTS. Justice served.
Just don’t ask me to honk the horn. It’s embarrassing.
I met Sammy Hagar once (with Tab Hunter, surely the only time they’ve been in the same room or sentence.) A really, genuinely nice guy.
Sadly, it doesn’t matter how nice he is… No. I can’t drive 55. I can’t drive ANY speed. And more to the point, I hate it.
I am a U.S. American who hates driving.
I am only snobby about two things: People who try to put an “a” in “definitely,” and commuting to work in a car.
I’ve never done it. My entire adult life of jobs, never. I’ve walked, I’ve taken the bus, train, a combo of all three — but I’ve never had to drive to work.
And it’s not just work. It’s anywhere. I figure if I have to drive to get there, surely I don’t need to go there all that badly.
“Why do you have such a problem with it? Did something happen in your past?”
“Do you see me with a car right now? It’s because I’ve wrecked them all.”
“All of them?”
(Icy glare of math.)
I’m not being obstinate. I’m just bad at it. There is nothing soothing about being in control of a giant hunk of deadly metal. I make decisions too rashly in unfamiliar circumstances. I panic when I’m lost. And, I’m Memento.
It does not matter how many times I’ve been on a route, behind a wheel, I can’t remember a THING. I have been asked for walking directions in every city I’ve lived in. Roger, got it. I’m your gal. But driving? I…nothing. Blank. I got nothing.
So when that, “What would your Superhero Power be?” question comes up, my answer is, “teleportation,” just so I don’t have to drive. Though, my Superhero Power could just as easily be “Have a chauffeur.”
Both solutions are acceptable.
![I have fulfilled my destiny. Precisely halfway through my Jesus Year, instead of loafing and fishing, I am finally filling the Cozy-Coupe shaped void in my spirit — by driving the adult-sized version.
SmartCars, y’all. It handles like a bumper car, has the get-up-and-go of an overhead projector and even though I actively hate driving — it’s fun. You are required to say, “Whee!” when you go over a speed bump. It takes 15 litres of gas to fill up the whole tank. That’s like 15 Diet Cokes.
Deprive a person the fifth-best-selling car in the US [EVEN] among real vehicles as a child, and eventually they will avenge that injustice. It’s tiny. It’s black. And it can park ANYWHERE IT WANTS. Justice served.
Just don’t ask me to honk the horn. It’s embarrassing.](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lvvls6QhYr1qz76xlo1_r2_400.jpg)
