Why I Will Never Join NASCAR

I don't like driving.
It's not that I'm bad at it, now . . . but . . . Well . . . I didn't get my actual license until I was nineteen. Why? Three reasons:

1. I waited until I was 16 to get my learners because I was afraid to drive. I have barely-functioning hand-eye coordination and no sense of direction. You'd be scared to drive, too . . .
2. My parents refused to teach me for a year because they were afraid to let me drive . . . Once they my dad did start teaching me (my mom was too chicken insistent), it was only down a designated, isolated road on Sunday afternoons
3. I was so so SOOOOO nervous and terrified and had NEVER been taught how to parkanywhere but my own driveway, that I failed my drivers test TWICE. 

 For this, I permanently wear the driving cone of shame.

[source]

 Now, don't think for a second that I'm a bad driver.
I'm just . . . Well, I'd like to say I'm a careful, conscientious driver.
Chris says I'm timid and that that's a bad thing. I just like to make sure I have plenty of space, the people around me have space, and that I'm not in anyone's way.

You see, I hate being in trouble so much that I feel terrible when the jerks on the road dislike me because I go the speed limit. Or with the flow of traffic . . . or whatever. Because, you know, jerks are never happy. Just remind me of that when my palms start sweating because someone passed me (and the rest of traffic) and I'm all, "Oh no! I was going too slow! That guy must hate me! Oh no!"
Will I ever see the guy? NEVER. And yet somehow I care.
It's not healthy.
P.S. We're working on that . . .

But I'm a good driver, I swear.
People who ride with me say I'm a good driver. It's just that my nonexistent hand-eye-foot-eye-any coordination makes them wary, initially. I mean, I can't catch a ball to save my life, but, sure, I can maneuver a rolling death machine in and out of traffic.  
No one's died on my watch, folks. Not even hurt their necks or pinched their fingers. We are good to go.

So, all this to say that, yesterday, Chris and I had this conversation:
"I'll go with you to run errands tomorrow," says my over-protective husband.
"Chris, sweetheart, we've been here a month, and, the only time I've driven is following you back here from the packing house. Your family will be here in two weeks, and I have a feeling that I'm going to need to drive your mom and sister around to show them the sights. I need to feel and act like I know what I'm doing . . . actually, I just need to know, right now."
"You don't need to do that."
"Honey, it's what people do when they're out of state. They visit nice things."
"Yeah, well . . . "
"Honey, I'm a big girl. I put on my own clothes and everything. I can drive myself."

This morning, I wake up to a phone call.
"Sooooo . . . umm . . . my truck's in the shop because the brakes weren't working correctly. Come pick me up?" says the hubs all nonchalant. Like he wasn't afraid for my life last night when I suggest driving to the next town by myself.

And so I braved the merging-faster-than-you-can-blink Californian highways and rescued him and then drove home.
  All by myself.
I mean, the GPS helped a little, but can a phone merge you onto traffic? Can it avoid semi-trucks? Can a phone keep you the speed limit. Apple's impressive, but I THINK NOT!!! That was me, peeps. ME. AND NOBODY DIED.

And then I DID IT ALL AGAIN to pick him up from work.
Again, no deaths, no gasps or "HELL'S BELLS!!!" even.
Does anyone say that besides me and John Rhys-Davies?

We'll omit the part where I totally missed the entrance to Chris's office parking lot and didn't see him waving his arms at me (EYES ON THE ROAD!!!! NO WHERE ELSE!!! ROOOOOOAAAADD!!!!). . . but we fixed it in under five minutes . . . and after he stopped laughing way harder than he should have. I mean, really, he was no where near the road where I could see him.

So, yeah, I'm a good driver.
Anyone want to go joy-riding sometime soon? You know, after gas is a dollar again. HA!