For the next two weeks, I’ll be participating in The Scintilla Project. What that means: they’ll be e-mailing me prompts, and I’ll be writing on them. And if I fall behind, maybe this whole experiment will drag out for more than two weeks.
Day 3: Talk about a time when you were driving and you sang in the car, all alone. Why do you remember this song and that stretch of road?
I couldn’t tell you a story about my driving to save my life. Though my family would be more than happy to tell you a dozen stories about my driving to save your life.
Driving and I are not wholly incompatible.
I have never received at ticket. Though I will readily confess to being pulled over twice. For driving at night without my headlights on. Which was so idiotic and the officers so astonished by my sobriety that they let me go.
Chew on that.
But for a bit of context, once in a fit of exasperation, I told Marcus that I needed a driver. No I wasn’t serious, and yes, I know that you know what I mean.
He rolled his eyes, looked at me and said, You realize that’s what I do. Right?
I was a little bit taken aback. He is my husband, NOT my driver.
He then proceeded to outline to me the circumstances in which I drive myself to and from places. Work. Home. Uptown. The West End. The Warehouse District. Lake Calhoun. Ridgedale. The Cabin. Lindsey’s. Jillian’s. Emily’s. Ann’s. Galina’s. Brady’s.
All familiar. A not insignificant number of them involving driving in a completely straight line.
I acquiesced. He had a point. The driving I do, could be programmed into a computer. The repetition, my comfort.
So where does that leave me?
I will forever remember stretches of road, winding through the Crow Wing State Forest, lining the way Up North. But there will never be a moment where it is just me with the sunroof open, my too big sunglasses on, 107.5: The Power Loon blasting and a duffel bag in my backseat.
Because I do not go this way alone.