As a first year, there are certain questions you're constantly asked.Among them -- do you like your roommate? (What's not to like? Every night we watch the eight seasons of "Friends" videos she bought off eBay.) Are classes hard?(Senioritis stays in your system like mono.) And my personal favorite -- are you taking care of yourself? (If you could see me, you would find pity and not ask.)
Recently, however, I was thrown a curveball. Thanks to Sprint's quality service, I was conducting my Sunday night chats with the girls from home while curled up on a damp wooden bench in the Old Dorms quad. It was the prime time and location for the ensuing query from my good friend Jessica (also fighting hypothermia at Notre Dame.)We were discussing our chaotic college lives when, quite seriously, she said, "Megan, honestly, what do you miss most about being home?"
Grimacing at the sight of my chipped manicure, shivering beneath a layer of Polartec and mentally calculating the nutritional content of yogurt pretzels, at that moment I could have answered in a million different ways. I know the "PC" response -- "family, friends and my dogs," and I know the expected response -- "real Mexican food, my treadmill under the fan at the gym and my own clean bathroom." Yet, I'm not going to lie, none of these things are 100 percent true.
I miss driving.
I think it may be a phenomenon of the West with all of its wide open spaces.In Arizona, parking lots cover acres, city streets are six lanes wide, and car washes and gas stations grace almost every corner (we also have an extensive array of red light cameras and photo radar detectors). It's a land of car culture, and, for me, growing up without a Metro or an 'L' has made driving the end-all, be-all symbol of independence.
Nothing comes close to cruising down Camelback Road with the sunroof open, the feel of the steering wheel sliding through your fingers and, depending on the traffic, the Rolling Stones, Dave or some classic middle school music blaring from the speakers.This may be exquisite material for a psych class, but I quite simply love being in control of the car. When to turn or change lanes, what speed, where to park -- driving is a series of decisions made solely by the person behind the wheel.
And lately, I've been feeling like I'm a 15-year-old again.
Being 15 was the longest year of my life. Cursed with a June birthday, my 10th grade year was spent waiting in humiliation with the freshmen for my mom after school or, if I was lucky, the sound of my friend Jake's horn as he swung into my driveway 15 minutes before homeroom. I endured the mandatory 20 hours of driving school, led by a wannabe-cowboy instructor who insisted that I pull over to a garage sale so he could check out a saddle. I sharpened my reverse skills by continuously driving around our U-shaped driveway (a la Austin Powers in the golf cart -- my mom refused to let me circle onto the street, and then made me stop altogether after I backed into a cactus).I even planned the contents of my glove box and contemplated the merits of a CD visor versus a Case Logic binder. I was obsessed, and I wanted to be grown-up, self-sufficient and free.
I freely admit all that driveway practice did not necessarily guarantee good driving skills. Clipping your father's car on the side of the garage (twice) and rear-ending a woman on her way to a baby shower because you were fixing your hair (minor crash -- the cake on her backseat did not fall nor did the helium balloons clouding her vision pop), both point to a poor driving record. As my brother approaches his 16th birthday, my family likes to joke that those years of video games and go-karts already made him a better driver than I could ever hope to be. My response is a simple laugh of contempt.
At least I have a license.
Of course, that coveted card is of little help to me now. Walking to the Corner for a sandwich (walking everywhere for that matter), or catching the trolley to go downtown is time consuming, not to mention tiring.Do I need to replenish my supply of Diet Coke? No, because that would involve hauling cans back on the bus, or, worse yet, trekking with heavy plastic bags. Such refusal to expend the effort probably explains my dwindling plus dollars.
I feel stranded, abandoned and just plain young. I know my first-year life wouldn't change all that much with the ability to drive myself to Sam's Club or out to Bellair Market, and I know that parking and traffic in Charlottesville is ridiculous. But driving is therapeutic, and I like to have the option of grabbing an Archer at
10:30 on a rainy night, or picking up a cake for a friend's birthday at the last minute. I just don't feel like myself without my car.
Next semester the roads will be crawling with first years resuscitating their driving spirit, and my beloved car will join the masses and head east in January.
I cannot wait.
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