I truly believe all children go through an asshole stage at some point in their lives. Some may be unruly toddlers, others tweeners with an attitude, and so on. In my case, my asshole stage was definitely when I was a teenager.
When I think back on my high school days, I often cringe. I was a major bitch, and mostly to my family. I was an arrogant little jerk who acted like I didn’t need any of them.
I mean, other than to pay for my food, shelter and, unknowingly, my huffing habit. Paint and glue can get pricey, people.
Because I was always a pretty independent person, I couldn’t wait to drive. I wouldn’t have to depend on anyone to take me where I needed to go. More importantly, I could go wherever I wanted!
Looking back, I wish I never would have gotten my license. I HATE driving. Even though I’ve lived in the city for years, I still cannot parallel park without at least hitting another car, or more likely the curb or a small child. It’s like my bumper has radar for hitting other bumpers. I’m SO thankful that I decided to purchase a brand-spanking new car so I could run some things over, hit a couple of other things and now, 8 years later, look like I’m driving the car from the Victory Auto Wreckers commercial.
That dude does have some pretty sweet hair, though, I must say. Wink, wink.
Back to high school. I often liked to run my mouth about how easy things were, driving included in this list. My Dad, who had had enough of this talk, threw me the keys and said, “Go ahead, back out of the driveway.” I smiled gleefully.
As I climbed into the car and adjusted the seat so that I was sitting close enough to turn the wheel with my breasts, I began to fantasize. I dreamed of taking this car on a joyride to…somewhere warm…yes, definitely the beach, windows down, music up, wind running through my frizzy curls. Oh, look at that convertible with the top down, guys with no shirts on, muscles, hollering at me. Oh, what? You want my number? I couldn’t possibly…
I was snapped out of my pleasant dream by my Dad, who jumped into the passenger seat to “oversee.” I glared at him, knowing I certainly didn’t need his help. I’m 15, therefore invincible. I could drive this car with my eyes closed and my hands tied behind my back!
And don’t forget, I sit so close I can turn the car with my areolas.
I revved the engine and put the car in reverse as I looked in the rearview mirror to check that no one was walking or driving down the street. Safety first!
I then proceeded to slam down on the accelerator like it was a cockroach I was trying to kill. In my haste, I sort of forgot the whole “steering” element and proceeded to careen the car at 30 mph straight at the tree in the yard. I veered WAY off course from the driveway.
“Bleeping bleep!” my Dad yelled at me as he turned the steering wheel in the other direction. My foot stayed on the pedal, though, as we continued to hurl directionless into the street. “Stop the BLEEPING CAR!” he screamed.
Only then did I take my foot off the accelerator, while at the same time trying to control my breath and shaking hands.
“Out of the car,” my Dad directed me as I pouted.
Of course I pouted. Surly 15 year old teen girl here!
“Whatever, it’s my first time driving. What did you expect?” I shot back snottily as I put the car in park and haughtily removed my seatbelt and sauntered back in the house.
My mom had her face pressed up against the front room window and was panting loudly. “That’s my favorite tree. You almost drove the car into my favorite tree,” she softly said as she shook her head slowly.
It was a good long time before they would let me behind the wheel again.
Don’t talk like you’re “da bomb” about something you’ve never done and deep down know you’ll likely not be good at, considering you have the coordination of drunk one-legged dog.