Yesterday, while running errands, my trusty old (and I mean old) Oldsmobile started making a noise. A braking noise. A very disturbing, sounds-like-I'm-underwater-when-I'm-braking noise.
And I was planning on driving to Bloomington at the end of the week. Six hours. Each way. SHIT.
So, we're bringing the car in tomorrow, and the plan was for me to learn how to drive a stick-shift today. So that I can take it on a roadtrip. Alone. For 6 hours.
This, obviously, terrifies me.
Matt took my brake-y car to work today, and around 11, I head down to try and get his damn car to work. Because I've done this before. Senior year in college. Under much pressure from Matt. And I didn't enjoy it.
It may have involved crying.
I agreed to do this because I knew I'd feel relatively safe in my secluded, usually empty, apartment parking lot.
I forgot that on either side of my building, they're building other buildings. And driving large, yellow, shovel-having scary vehicles between the two construction sites. All. Day. Long.
There's nothing more embarrassing than getting into a cute little Jetta, waiting for a large vehicle to rumble past you, and then trying to back the damn thing up for the first time in four years.
And failing. And failing. And failing.
And imagining all those construction men, who have been driving stick shifts since they were 11, laughing at me.
And also imagining that somehow I'd get the car out on the open road, and I'd stall it, and I'd be stuck in the middle of the road and never be able to get the car to move again.
This was my fear.
So I got out of the car and came upstairs and hung pictures and organized scarves in my apartment.
(HEY. Don't knock it. Scarf Organization is being considered for inclusion in the Olympic Games.)
(ALSO: Thanks for all your well wishes on the professional-writing front. I've done everything I can right now, and I should hear something within the next week. Keep everything crossed!)