Liberation on I-95
Just a girl with her Dunkin, hitting the open road. I assume this is what the historians mean when they talk about that American frontier self-reliant spirit.
Please don’t judge me for this, but this week was my very first time driving in Manhattan. I am 32 years old, and consider myself to be a competent person in other ways, but until this week, I was that absolute cliche of a New Yorker: full of opinions about basically everything, willing to tell you exactly how you should live your life, but also terrified to get behind the wheel in my own city.
I came to driving late in life. I failed my road test the first time I took it, back in British Columbia (and I’m still sore about it! They have unreasonably high standards in BC!). When I was 25, I finally worked up the nerve to try again, and when the nice woman up in Yonkers told me I’d passed the test, I felt incredibly relieved—more relieved than empowered, because living in New York, it’s not like I had the chance to use my license that much. I got a little bit of experience here and there, over the years, but had basically convinced myself that I just wasn’t The Driving Type.
This self-imposed narrative reminds me of another story I used to tell myself, which was that I just wasn’t The Cooking Type. I didn’t like it! I didn’t find it relaxing, or therapeutic, or any of those things people always talked about. I was happy to do the dishes, and let Andrew be in charge of making dinner, because I knew myself, and I just wasn’t The Cooking Type.
There was a time (not that long ago, to be honest) when both cooking and driving seemed like a big hassle. I wasn’t good at it, other people were better at it than me, in fact other people enjoyed it more than me, so why not let them handle it? I’d live my life in the passenger seat, and I’d pull my weight by organizing playlists and snacks for road trips; I’d eat what was served to me, and I’d spring up to wash the dishes when dinner was done.
But then, inevitably, because life is annoying like that, there were moments when I could no longer rely on other people to do these things for me.
When I left my job and began working from home, I just couldn’t, in good conscience, justify going out every day to buy an expensive salad or sandwich for lunch. I had to learn to feed myself. At first it felt like a chore, a thing borne from necessity alone: lugging the groceries home, prepping the ingredients, standing by the oven, checking for done-ness. But gradually, as the months went by, a funny thing started to happen. I actually found that I didn’t mind cooking. That I actually …. liked it? With a bit of time, and a bit of grace (and, honestly, the necessity of just having to do it, over and over), I could finally understand what everyone had been talking about. This cooking thing—it felt pretty good.
My relationship to driving followed the same trajectory. At first, when I had to drive myself around, it was a pain in the ass. And stressful! I was terrible at gauging distances in the mirror. Changing lanes on the highway felt like a death wish. Traffic circles were a nightmare. But then I got a little better, and gained a little more confidence, just like everyone said I would. Things which had once been daunting became do-able: driving at night, or in the rain, or through heavy traffic. I actually found myself looking forward to the longer solo excursions, the chance to catch up on podcasts or sing along, very loudly and very badly, to Taylor Swift or Alanis Morisette or The Cranberries. The narrative loosened its grip on me. Maybe I was The Driving Type? Maybe. But certain things were still insurmountably scary—like driving in New York City.
Change can be unpleasant. Circumstances force action upon us; we don’t want to do a thing, but we have to do a thing. When Andrew and I realized the logistical necessity of me driving from New York to Rhode Island by myself, my first reaction was: PLEASE GOD NO! But there was really no other option. I had to do it. And while part of me was intimidated, another part of me told myself to calm down; I knew that it would be okay. Maybe there would be stressful moments, cringing and horn-honking and amateurish mistakes, but I would get through them.
And you know what? The drive was totally fine. During Covid, Andrew and I have been driving in the city more than usual, and it turns out that all those hours in the passenger seat were actually helpful. You can learn a lot by watching another person do a thing. And while there is always a scary gulf between watching and doing, it helps to remember that everyone—everyone!—had to cross that gulf at some point. No matter what skill or what person we’re talking about. We all start somewhere.
The drive was totally fine. Actually, it was more than totally fine. I was on my own schedule; I decided my own route; I got to listen to as much Taylor and Alanis as I wanted. At a certain point, pretty early in the drive, I realized I was having fun. Fun! Who would have thunk it? And while the backdrops to change aren’t always picturesque (I don’t think anyone would call the pot-holed Bruckner picturesque), that makes it more real, and also kind of wonderful.