I passed my driving test more than twenty years ago. Then I pretty much never drove again. Living in a city in Geneva as a student never required it. I cycled with great enthusiasm instead. I’m not afraid of traffic: I’ve cycled daily in heavy traffic in Geneva, Vancouver, Los Angeles. But driving a car baffled me. I just never understood what my feet should be doing. Never gained confidence. Never trusted myself. By the time we owned a car as a family, I was totally freaked out.
It has been hard to reconcile calling myself a feminist with being driven everywhere by my patient husband. But not that hard.
Then, necessity really calling this week, I finally got behind a wheel again in Geneva — this time with an automatic car, and a friendly driving instructor. I survived. I felt so proud. I told myself that it was only one more pedal than a sewing machine. That helped to remove the drama. Perhaps, perhaps, I will try again soon without the instructor? Or will I just make a quilt with this fabric, for my little boy? Or for me? I feel I finally deserve it.