Assimilation

Whenever I leave the city, I can't help but take note of all the differences between the daily pleasures and routines of those on the Outside (also known as the Real World) and Manhattanites.

My love for the Outside is not a secret: It could be nostalgia, it could be my rarely released, yet unbridled, passion for all things found in a Target or Safeway store, or it could simply be a suppressed love of a giant fried plate of chain restaurant deliciousness all for the low, low price of $7.99. In any case, while I have a HUGE place in my heart for Manhattan's parks, bars, and restaurants (five words: All You Can Drink Brunch), I have a permanent soft spot for the oversized comforts of the Outside.

Except for one.

Driving.

This last trip to Colorado, I not only got the pleasure of RIDING around the Best State in the Union in a big steel scary-mobile, but I managed to DRIVE. Twice.

Both auto-related challenges were met with great success- I did not run into any wildlife. I obeyed all traffic laws and posted limits, much to the chagrin of my fellow drivers. I didn't get lost in my hometown. And I brought both the Hyundai AND the Mercedes back to safety without even hitting the sides or front wall of the garage. See? Success.

However, as I steered my way through the treacherous streets of Cheyenne Mountain, I couldn't help but ask- they let TEENAGERS do this????

(No offense to my darling and, I have no doubt, extremely capable teenage cousins.)

But seriously, there are just so many things to navigate- we're talking obeying the speed limit; turning into the correct lane; staying in your lane; not running out of gas; not hitting anything made of metal, flesh, wood, or any other material; keeping your hands firmly at ten and two on the steering wheel while also pressing the gas/brake, but never both at the same time; remembering to continue pressing said gas, even when a car is coming your direction in the other lane... and this is just in the neighborhood! Do not even get me STARTED on the freeway. It boggles my mind to think that people drive over 40 miles an hour. And to think that I used to do this with the same ease that I now press the up button on the elevator 17 times a day is perhaps the most mind-boggling of all.

So the moral of this anti-ode to driving is this: I am not ready for assimilation.

While one day I will have to re-join the rest of normal, well-adjusted Americans behind the wheel- comfortably cruising to work or play, windows down, radio blasting- for now, I'll just hide out here, thanks.