See, I didn't learn to drive until I was in my mid-twenties. (What finally cured me of my non-driving was a train ride to Philadelphia, PA. That is one long state to traverse by train.) Calling on various friends, I received a thorough course in driving.
The day came to go for my driving test. I was nervous. No, I was very nervous. I was, in fact, so nervous that the woman who gave the test had to do something she said she rarely got to do.
What I had to do, she said, was go practice driving faster.
Taking her words to heart, I exceeded the speed limit all the way home. (My dear friend Annie let me drive her car (with her in it, of course!) to the Secretary of State and back, not to mention the grocery store, out to eat, and anywhere else we were going.)
A few weeks later we returned to the SOS office. I went up to the counter and announced my arrival for my driving test. I was directed to the woman administering tests that day, who looked at me from across the counter and asked me how the hell was she supposed to know where my car was.
Impressed by her pleasant demeanor I spun on my heel and walked out to the car.
Some time later, when she found me in the parking lot (I helpfully pointed out that "This is where the hell the car is"), she gave me a series of directions, delivered in a foul tone which made me think even less of her.
I'll confess. By the time the car actually started moving, I was well over this woman. I'd had it. I seriously considered cutting the test off halfway through, returning to the parking lot, and going into the SOS office for a discussion with the office manager. Instead, I amused myself making sure that every left turn we made slammed into her into the door.
I didn't pass that test, either.
I did, however, pass the third time, with flying colors.
(Aside to Mark: as noted, this was in my early twenties. I've matured in the ten years since then.)
(Second aside to Mark: yeah, and the same to you.)
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