It’s 7:37 on a Tuesday night. I’m typing furiously in a brightly lit library cubicle while attempting to ignore a formidable craving for Annie’s Aged White Cheddar Mac and Cheese. You may be wondering, “But Eve, why can’t you journey home for this warm, carbohydrate-dense meal that you so desire?” Well, at the ripe old age of 17 years, six months, and three days, I have not yet learned to maneuver an automobile.
I planned on earning my learner’s permit on the very day that I turned 16; I have not returned to the linoleum-floored, claustrophobia-inducing Department of Motor Vehicles since that fated April afternoon. After failing to provide my social security card during registration, I reasoned I’d come back in the following week with an even better memorization of road signs and booster seat safety requirements. These weeks devolved into months. Soon enough, all of my friends obtained their own rites of passage in the form of blue-hued plastic cards, each emblazoned with an overexposed (but nonetheless eager) smiling face. Each of them gushed over the liberation that this newfound ability yielded as dinner plans, day trips to Compo Beach, and late-night ice cream runs, all without the need for parental carpooling, gained sudden spontaneity. They even discussed the supposedly mundane chore of filling a tank of gasoline, remarking that the transaction felt refreshingly mature. Exhilarated by such idyllic independence, close pals encouraged me to seek out driving instruction.These motivational words have since turned to pestering chides; some have even offered to register the date for my permit test as a Christmas gift.