This morning was Driving Test Thursday, aka "Sweet Jesus If I Don't Pass This Time I May Become an Alcoholic" Thursday.

So I woke up at oh-Fuck-Me Hundred to have a one hour practice before the test, which was scheduled at 8:40. Blearily I took a shower and had coffee and a bowl of yogurt and granola while examining the arctic tundra that was the weather outside (I exaggerate-there was a bit of frost, it was just cold out. Too cold. Cold enough to make me want to cancel my test and my London meetings for the day). I tried to wake the hell up and tried to remain calm-this was round two of my driving exam, and I have to pass this thing by May as that's when my theory test certificate expires-I really don't want to have to take the theory again.

La Mole (what I call my driving instructor) turns up at 7:40. I am mostly awake by this time, and feeling rumblings of both boredom and dread at having to do the driving test. I am not feeling so confident about my driving-failing one test and a massive blow up about driving with Angus over the Atlanta long weekend we had in November hasn't helped. Said driving blow up repeated on the long drive to Whistler from Seattle, and I am generally feeling pretty crap about my driving abilities these days. So no-I wasn't looking forward to the test.

I get in the car for him to tell me that he forgot his stick-on rearview mirror (a must for exams, so the examiner can see behind you) and we would have to swing by his house. So we drive to his house in the busy morning traffic, and he has me wait in the car while he runs in to get his mirror. I debate turning on the radio and blasting it on some rap music for him to enjoy when he gets back in the car, but I decide I can't be assed.

We then drive around and "practice". This is the worst part for me, mostly because I've been driving more than half my life now and have determined bad habits-we all have habits. Trust me when I tell you that I only know of one person that drives the way the driving examiners want us to drive, and that person is in his 70's. If we drove the way the examiners want us to, then we would simply stay home as it's just too much of a pain. It would end the problem of the carbon footprint we leave behind. Pollution would screech to a halt and leaves would grow out of our rusting automobiles. We'd all be on bicycles, or at least until they instigated bicycle examinations, then we'd all just stay home for good and have a lot of sex.

We then try to do some "procedures". On the exam they have you do three of five procedures:

-reverse into a parking spot
-reverse around a corner
-parallel park
-three point turn
-emergency stop

I never, ever reverse around a corner. I don't know anyone who does. This seems to be fundamentally flawed in the safety area to me, but then what do I know, I still haven't passed my test.

And today my maneuvers are horrible. I'll all over the place. I go up the curb on the reversing around a corner. My parallel parking looks like it was done by a 90 year-old woman who basically decided to park her car in the middle of the road. I reverse into a parking spot ok, but it took me a fucking ice age to do it.

And above all that, I keep exceeding the speed limit.

This is a change for me, as typically I drive too slow.

I'm a grandma in thirtysomething clothes.

La Mole asks me to try parallel parking again. So I pull up next to a silver Ford and prepare to parallel park, him talking all the time. WHAM! goes the car, as it shudders and stops. I look at the steering wheel.

"Your car is broken!" I exclaim.

"No it's not, I used the brake," he replies, looking into the sideview mirror.

Oh my god.

Oh no you di'unt.

He chicken-braked me.

I haven't been chicken-braked since I was 15. I was extremely annoyed and rage a bit: Chicken brake me? I'll show YOU a chicken brake, goddammit...You want me to stop, just tell me to. Say it, don't splay it.

By the time we get to the test centre, I'm dreading it. He looks at the empty lot and asks me to reverse park. So I head to the opposite side of the parking lot where there's lots of space.

WHAM! goes the car.

He chicken-braked me again.

Mother fucker! my road rage mind screams. You touch that chicken brake again and I'll come unglued in ways Alexis Carrington only dreamt about!

"I want you to park on this side," he explains.

So I reverse into a parking space and pass that one, albeit I am a font of smoldering rage.

We go inside and sit down-two other young men are taking the test and their instructors are sitting with them. We sit and nervously chat. I pop a breath mint (it can't hurt) and have a cup of water. Soon the door opens and an instructor pops his head in. He starts talking.

It's just noise to me. I can't understand a word he's saying. It's as though my American to British translator device has broken. I recognize that these words he's saying are words in English, I just can't make any sense of them. Everyone in the room is nodding and taking a slip of paper he's handing out. I look at La Mole.

"Where's my examiner?" I ask in a Homer Simpson-like stage whisper.

The others look at me in the room with a look of pathetic awe, as though they're wondering if I'm learning how to park my short bus.

"There's no test, Helen," La Mole explains calmly, as though he's afraid I have emotional damage. I don't, but if he uses his fucking chicken brake again I might do. "They're cancelling it due to ice."

"But there's no ice out," I say stupidly.

"They think there is," La Mole says, continuing to translate for me. "They'll call you in a day or two to re-schedule the test."

Right.

Well, at least I didn't fail today anyway.

Didn't pass either, but I didn't fail.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:39 AM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
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