I get it. Now I get it.
On my 16th birthday, my parents handed me a set of keys that not only unlocked my beautiful stallion of a pre-owned Mazda, but also the gates of Wilton as I knew them. My tiny world that had revolved around begging my parents to drive me into the limited teen ecosystem of Wilton Town Center now erupted into an endless adventure of last-minute hang-outs and iced coffee whenever my little heart desired. I was free. I couldn’t drive anyone else for six months and legally had to be home by 11, but I. Was. Free.