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Manual Drive
Mar. 10th, 2014 11:37 amSo-o, I actually spent about a month obsessing about the car before I took possession of it. Because it's a stick shift.
Way back in the Jurassic era when I first learned to drive (courtesy of the Brontosaurus Driving Academy), I actually learned on a manual clutch. I spent five years driving one. I wouldn't have expected five years of experience 30 years ago to translate into a sense memory, but apparently it did. Once I got behind the wheel, I was golden. My left foot and right hand knew exactly how to work in concert. (Plus I'd also been forcing myself to have lucid dreams about driving a manual clutch. Believe it or not, that helped.) I dragged l'il Jeremy to the Bronx because I was so afeared that I'd never be able to drive that car home, but my anxieties were misapplied. I could have done it entirely on my own.
Of course, when you're driving a manual clutch, you actually have to pay attention to driving. You can't talk on the phone or text or bend down under the dashboard to grope around for that misplaced CD or sandwich because you have to keep your ears out for the shifting window. This is bad for organ donations. I get that.
Having a car will be a huge improvement in my quality of life. For example: there aren't any supermarkets near where I live. Or rather: A Jamaican supermarket just opened up a few blocks away from me, and so long as I'm buying breadfruit, conch, or any of 30 types of hot sauce, it's a dream come true. But if I want to buy grapefruit juice or yogurt -- the two staples of my diet -- Houston, we have a problem. (There's an Associated maybe two miles away from me and if I look carefully, I can find some things I like to eat hidden among the Ho-Hos and Fanta grape soda, but you know: That's a lo-o-o-ng trek down unshoveled sidewalks when it's five degrees Fahrenheit. And they don't sell grapefruit juice or yogurt either.)
So all in all, a good weekend. S2 has decided I need to learn how to play golf (Golf? Me? Dude! But hey! If the POTUS can do it...) so on Saturday morning, he took me out to a driving range and we worked out way through a bucket of balls. I don't know how good I was at it and my shoulders ache, but it was surprisingly entertaining. Then in the evening, I went to visit the Home for Wayward Wimmen and screened the movie Her for them. Which I think they all enjoyed.
Came back Sunday afternoon and immediately had a panic attack, which of course was all related to Pollyanna and job uncertainty. Tossed and turned all fucking night. I kept telling myself: This is nutty. You're okay. But you know, when you can't sleep, you can't sleep. I think maybe I got three hours of sleep all told.
Consequently, I feel like shit this morning.
Oh, well.
Way back in the Jurassic era when I first learned to drive (courtesy of the Brontosaurus Driving Academy), I actually learned on a manual clutch. I spent five years driving one. I wouldn't have expected five years of experience 30 years ago to translate into a sense memory, but apparently it did. Once I got behind the wheel, I was golden. My left foot and right hand knew exactly how to work in concert. (Plus I'd also been forcing myself to have lucid dreams about driving a manual clutch. Believe it or not, that helped.) I dragged l'il Jeremy to the Bronx because I was so afeared that I'd never be able to drive that car home, but my anxieties were misapplied. I could have done it entirely on my own.
Of course, when you're driving a manual clutch, you actually have to pay attention to driving. You can't talk on the phone or text or bend down under the dashboard to grope around for that misplaced CD or sandwich because you have to keep your ears out for the shifting window. This is bad for organ donations. I get that.
Having a car will be a huge improvement in my quality of life. For example: there aren't any supermarkets near where I live. Or rather: A Jamaican supermarket just opened up a few blocks away from me, and so long as I'm buying breadfruit, conch, or any of 30 types of hot sauce, it's a dream come true. But if I want to buy grapefruit juice or yogurt -- the two staples of my diet -- Houston, we have a problem. (There's an Associated maybe two miles away from me and if I look carefully, I can find some things I like to eat hidden among the Ho-Hos and Fanta grape soda, but you know: That's a lo-o-o-ng trek down unshoveled sidewalks when it's five degrees Fahrenheit. And they don't sell grapefruit juice or yogurt either.)
So all in all, a good weekend. S2 has decided I need to learn how to play golf (Golf? Me? Dude! But hey! If the POTUS can do it...) so on Saturday morning, he took me out to a driving range and we worked out way through a bucket of balls. I don't know how good I was at it and my shoulders ache, but it was surprisingly entertaining. Then in the evening, I went to visit the Home for Wayward Wimmen and screened the movie Her for them. Which I think they all enjoyed.
Came back Sunday afternoon and immediately had a panic attack, which of course was all related to Pollyanna and job uncertainty. Tossed and turned all fucking night. I kept telling myself: This is nutty. You're okay. But you know, when you can't sleep, you can't sleep. I think maybe I got three hours of sleep all told.
Consequently, I feel like shit this morning.
Oh, well.
