My driving instructor is a chauvinist. He believes that once a woman gets close to the driver’s seat, she immediately becomes a blonde – regardless of her hair color. “I used to be a brunette, too,” he grumpily informed me. – “I got gray hair from the daily stress of work. I don’t know how many gray hairs his interactions with me have added. I’m more interested in the color of my own hair … Because the cost of hair dye has increased significantly after I went to driving school. However, about everything in order …
This story began with the same dream that tormented me. As if there was a fire raging around, my husband was unconscious, my children were crying in the car, and I – helpless and worthless – could not save my family from the fire. Because I can’t drive. When I had this nightmare for the tenth time, I decided it was a sign of fate and enrolled in a driving course. “Isn’t it a little late for that?” – the inner voice asked. I gave it the example of a Korean woman who got her driver’s license at the age of 80 (though after spending 10 years and three thousand dollars), and it (the voice) shut up.
I was, shall we say, the most mature in our group. That’s why I was the most diligent and assiduous. The Soviet school experience, you know, is ineradicable! I methodically solved tickets, analyzed training videos on YouTube, studied forums – in general, I was filled to the brim with theory. And I was looking forward to practicing.
My imagination painted an idyllic picture – I was brought to a special place, simulating the road, where I calmly practiced all the maneuvers. But the instructor said that for the best effect it is necessary to immediately “plunge into the thick of things”, i.e. drive out on the highway full of cars. Preferably during rush hour…
Okay, okay, into the thick of it. I carelessly turn the steering wheel with one hand, with the other hand hanging out the window. I masterfully bypass traffic jams, dodge dashing pedestrians and skillfully perform a “police turn”. And then I lower my eyes down and see my feet walking on the road. That is, I did all these maneuvers just walking on foot and holding the steering wheel in my hands… It was another variation of my car dream.
Fear, panic, fright, terror, horror, creepiness, trembling, awe – during two months of training I experienced the whole range of these feelings. However, I also experienced a high – every time the instructor said: “That’s it, the lesson is over”. No, he’s actually a good person – just professionally deformed. When dozens of people who can’t tell the difference between a crankshaft and a bearing pass through your hands every day, it’s hard to keep your wits about you….
When the instructor had nothing to praise me for, he inventively found reasons to cheer me up. For example, he once told me that I was good because I never once looked at the gear lever during the whole lesson. But the longer we shared the interior of his car with him (and the more I shifted from first to fourth speed), the more often the instructor started talking about the fact that there is a certain percentage of people on the planet who are basically unlearnable.
But I pretended that I didn’t understand the hints and asked for additional lessons. At some point the instructor’s patience changed and he yelled: “How can’t you understand?! It’s so simple!” “Yeah?” I wanted to say. – “Cooking Peking duck, cross-stitching, and knitting size zero baby booties are ‘very simple’ too! Can you do it?!”
One day I accidentally saw my reflection in the mirror: my face looked like I was on my way to kill someone. I realized it was a life-threatening situation to be on the road with that face. I mean, lives. So I took a time-out. For 20 days I swam, ran, danced and stayed away from the car. And when I came back, I went to the driving range, sat behind the wheel and looked at myself in the mirror. I liked what I saw – the killer had given way to a very nice woman. Brunette.
And yet, what inspires me most of all is not a new car in the color of “sunset in Sorrento”, not “cool” license plates, not a massager made of elite cedar under my buttocks. It is the fact that when my license expires, I will be almost 80!
