You know, sometimes, it’s downright depressing. Of course, I usually wear my inability to drive like a pretty bracelet. Like a cute trinket, it’s a conversation piece. But today, my inability to drive feels like a handcuff.
It’s like Martha Stewart’s ankle-monitoring-after-jail-home arrest-not-fair-leave-her-alone ankle-thing. I’m depressed (oh so briefly) about my fear of driving. I am so over myself.
Here’s the scenario:
1) I have to pickup balloons for my daughter’s class play.
2) Balloons are about 4 miles from my home, but NOT on my usual bus route.
3) I had a ride, but my designated driver just called. She has an ugly stomach bug. She spared me the details; I’ll spare you.
4) I am now scrambling for transportation. My husband is at work and I can’t drive my computer to Publix to get the balloons
5) And I’m too embarrassed to tell the PTA room mother, (who is so sweet, so thoughtful and so capable) that I can’t deliver the balloons, (30!!! balloons) because I DON'T DRIVE. She drives an SUV! She drives carpools. I drive myself crazy.
Maybe, I’ll take my kids’ Razorblade scooter to the supermarket (great exercise) and then take a cab to the school to drop off the balloons. That’s why I’m reading:
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