Warning: this is a long one. 

People often ask me why I can’t drive, to which I really have no answer to. It’s a burden to pick me up, I live on the outskirts where Naperville and  Lisle meet with the border of Woodridge, a good five minutes from any of my friends who can drive. Thus, on the slim occasions where an event takes place, I’m always forced to ask those around me for rides instead of doing it myself. 

I took drivers ed the summer of my sophomore year when some of my friends have already started driving on the roads, yet now, as a senior, I still do not have my license along with the select few (ie. Nicole who has not gotten it out of the fear of deportation…). It’s not that I didn’t want to drive initially, my disdain towards driving just grew over time. In my defense, I’ve already been in my fair share of accidents. In fact, my friend Jeff and I have a theory that I am bad luck to drivers, and so far we have been right. There has been at least 6 times where someone has done something stupid when I was in the car. These are a few of their stories:

 

the mailbox

On a dark evening with deserted streets, the roads were littered with gleaming raindrops that reflected the beams of the sun obscured by the moon. A navy sedan breaks the stagnant waters sending streams of light across the dark pavement as two figures rode through the deserted Napervillian suburbs talking amongst themselves, of their missions and of their reveries. The day seemed never ending. Tournament after tournament they competed without rest reciting book titles and scientific jargon, longing for a nap, consuming countless muffins, until finally the sun set, a minuscule trophy was won and it was time to rest.

As the stars glittered across the sky and the traffic lights glowed forest green, the night was calm and placid, unbothered by its looming darkness. Outside in the frosty November air, the house was like a hearth with open arms, Desperate to run into it, for the warm pot of curry that awaited me at home, I said goodbye and rummaged around my pockets for a key. Its string interlaced with my fingers, as I lifted it to its lock, one step closer to rest, one step closer to warmth, one step closer to comfort, one step closer for a meal, one more step-

An ear splitting crack was followed by the sudden screech, and my eyes of confusion were met with those of panic. The driver exited the car. Our heads turned apprehensively to face the inauspicious victim of the collision that stood in the dark. A mailbox. A wooden mailbox, burnt sienna, shaped like a small house, worn from the rain and age, moss growing on its side that pointed north, its red flag hanging precariously from its side, unphased. 

We tuned back to inspect the damage of the vehicle — a large streak was left by the flaking paint.  With a sigh of relief, we tried to rub the streak away, concluding that a car wash would do the trick, concluding that, thought it was long, it was nothing but a faint streak, concluding that the car was fine. Thank goodness it wasn’t that bad… IMAGINE if your car actually got dented… Haha just kidding… unless…? 

 

Midnight Donut Run

Anti-spring was quite the journey. After stuffing our faces with sushi on a wooden boat, after a long round of paintball and the new introduction of fat welts, after loud chips were scattered on a ping pong table and straights, flushes and bluffs were called, I was hungry. With a growling stomach and a worn out brain, I was ravenous, and possessed an insatiable hunger that could only be quenched by donuts…. Yes… donuts– Dunkin’ sounds pretty nice. The clock ticked midnight and my designated driver and I embarked on the long journey for some donuts before heading home. We met our first obstacle at 12:10 am, a turn to get off the main road littered with red signs. Upon closer inspection they blared DO NOT ENTER on their faces. Huh.

This can’t be right. We’re already on the road the GPS told us it was right… the car behind us followed us too… no this seems sketchy to be right… let’s back out… oop that’s awkward… move around the car oh that’s not a good hand symbol… three point turn… better safe than sorry… oh nice we’re out! Oh the signs are for the other path… so you’re saying we could have gone that way this whole time… maybe these roads are faster… nope let’s just go back…. Agh illegal shenanigans… on the bright side, donuts? 

At 12:20 we arrived at Dunkin, faint bakery smells and buzzing lights greeted us alongside a tired cashier. Ah, but we were too caught up in these illegal turns to figure out what we wanted… awkward. Glazed. Maple. Apple Cinnamon — it’s now a competition to find which flavor is best… on the way home, that is, as my parents have started to question my whereabouts. At 12:30 we were conducting a passionate discussion of which flavor is best, which donut was the most sophisticated juxtaposition of taste, appearance and quantity, driving through the dark, driving through the deserted streets, driving through the red light… wait. Not again. 

 

oh boy-ba

Oh to be able to get 6 cups of boba is a dream– the privilege of off campus, the freedom of the drive, the warm summer wind blowing through your hair, the subtle beat of Taylor Swift playing throughout the coffee colored Honda Odyssey, to live a carefree world and leave the lackluster school lunches behind with their foam plates and grease soaked napkins, a 50 minute break away from the stressors that tether us. 

Oh to be anticipating 6 cups of boba — cup holders ready, money in hand, imagining the joyous looks on our friends’ faces when they finally indulge in their long awaited smoothies, to have your lips meet the cool refreshing taste and to masticate the small orbs of tapioca. 

Oh to hold 6 cups of boba — their weight in your hands waiting to be consumed, their precarious setup in the coffee colored Odyssey, the constant reminder to hold the cups down so they don’t spill. 

Oh to save 6 cups of boba– one tumbling and the rest avalanching quickly afterward, the shades of brown in the interior of the van now stained purple from berry smoothies, a consequence of a bump into the car in front of us, a navy Chrysler deep as the night, a tiny white scratch, an angry driver, a disoriented wife, sirens, traffic jams, the pounding of 3 hearts in unison.

Oh to be able to get those 6 cups of boba out of my nightmares. 

 

After this long tangent of a blog, I still ask myself why I haven’t gotten my license yet. Often times I think of the freedom that I could attain if I were able to drive places; 2 am espresso would be a reality and maybe I’d even get a parking spot. Yet, through all of these thoughts I don’t feel guilty. In a few months everything will change and the usual drives home that we are so used to will turn into a sought out commodity. Our time with each other is falling short; how much longer do we have before Dollar Tree runs and free Portillo’s fries are no longer a day to day occurrence? To say that I will miss the familiarity of my 17 years here is an understatement. I have moved once, a few miles away from where I live now, and though I’m not going to be moving far, 59.3 miles now feels like infinity. Not to mention the burdens and unfamiliarity of transition, to be social, to be adaptive, to make somewhere your home. All of this is new, all new.

 

Yet, these minuscule moments, the drive to school, the drive to gatherings, the drive to nowhere will stay with me no matter how far I am. Not new, but old; a memory of pink sands car fresheners and overfilled cup holders, a memory of carpool karaokes and trunk duty, a realization, perhaps, of the bonds developed from simple car rides. Getting driven, though I may not admit it, is my guilty pleasure; an attempt, nonetheless, to obtain a few more memories with the people I don’t want to leave behind. So when I get asked as to why I still can’t drive yet, the whole tangent of parents and procrastination may just be a facade for my inability to let these current moments go.

 

Kevin, Emily, Helenna, Jeff, Kasey, Anne, Alyssa, Becky,  Brian, thanks for the rides.