I don't drive. There, that makes me different. It's kind of funny, actually: almost without exception in our circle of friends, there's one out of every couple who doesn't drive either. It's invariably the female half of the couple, though. There aren't many of us 32-year-old males out there who don't have a license.
Part of the reason I'm nonvehicular is my eyesight. Thanks to having been born premature, I spent most of the first four months of my life in an incubator, which damaged my eyes. The thing is, my corrected vision is supposed to be just adequate to drive. When I was seventeen, I aced the written driver's ed test but barely passed the eye exam--the sun was backlighting everything and making it difficult for me to focus, I said as much, and for some reason they let me pass. I felt like I'd failed, though.
I found, when I took driver's ed, that the only kind of driving I felt comfortable with was the 401. Reason: no cross streets, next to no chance of kids suddenly running out into your path, seemingly no need to have six pairs of eyes. (I've just got the one pair, thanks, and the peripheral vision is iffy.) I found, too, that I could perform "difficult" tasks fairly well (parallel parking, for example), but would then botch the simplest right hand turn.
(I've found that throughout my life in lots of different things. Playing goal in a floor hockey game, I would make a spectacular save and then have the puck shoot right between my legs in the next ten seconds.)
Anyway, the thought of what a poor driver I was simply reinforced itself over the years. I tend to view driving like a video game, with one major exception: when you crack up out there in the real world, it's not a matter of a pretty little fireball, five seconds off the clock, and an instant brand new car. And I've never managed to play a racing-themed game for very long without crashing.
This little phobia of mine has disappointed an awful lot of people, I know. My Dad in particular, which is understandable, since he's lived his life behind the wheel. I'm sorry that people feel that way, but I make no apologies for the way I feel about driving: I'm just not up to it.
I've been lucky, though. My wife, bless her, hardly ever grumps about doing all the driving. (The only time is on long trips to her or my parents' places: also when I feel most guilty for not having a license.)
The thing is, there are now very practical reasons for me to remain a non-driver. Have you seen the price of insurance lately? Or gasoline?
While I'm on this little soapbox, why is a driver's license the only acceptable form of identification for some places? It's the first thing they ask for, and sometimes the only thing. I've been turned away at video stores, as if a permit to drive has anything to do with how trustworthy a person is. Just a couple weeks back, I tried to cash in a chit at Mohawk Raceway. The sign said that 'government issued photo identification' was required. My Ontario Health Card satifies all three qualifiers. It's government-issed; it has a photo on it; the photo can clearly be identified as me. But it wasn't good enough for them. Barring a driver's license, well, they'd accept a passport. Fair enough, except last I looked I WAS STILL IN MY OWN COUNTRY.
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What else makes me an odd duck? Well, I love individual people, and lots of them, but tend to hate groups. I'm supremely uncomfortable in party environments. I feel insecure as hell if I have to interact with a bunch of strangers. (I'm a crackerjack public speaker though; that's different. Nobody's talking back.) I'm also uncomfortable around a large group of friends, simply because I feel my attention being pulled too many ways at once.
I watched so very little television as a child, preferring books. (One of many things that amaze me about my Eva is that she's a confessed TV addict who also reads more than I do.) I once went three years without any TV access, and to this day, I can take or leave most television programming. There was precisely one show I'd classify as "can't miss" last year: Joan of Arcadia. Aside from hockey games, and what I'm sure Eva feels is an unhealthy fascination with news, there hasn't anything else that's thoroughly captured my attention.
And I do wish all so-called "reality" shows would go off and be on their own network. Take "Survivor", for instance. What's the one thing all Survivor locales have in common? That's right, heat. Why is that? Two letters, baby. T...and A. A "real" episode of Survivor would see the tribes threatened by very large, very hungry bears. The people who could improvise some sort of a weapon and kill the beast or at least drive it off, would be said to have survived. Their reward? Life. That's "survival" in reality. What the T.V. Survivor is is a soap opera. Nothing wrong with that, if you like that sort of thing...just don't call it "reality".
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Well, that about wraps it up. Until next time, goodbye from the Breadbin, where we're crusty on top, but soft and squishy beneath.
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