Obsessed. That was the word my parents used. I believed that freedom could be found in that little red book. This little red book would mean the end of depending on my parents for a ride. This little red book would mean the end of seeing that look on my mother's face if I kept her waiting. This little red book would mean the end of that slight head droop and a quickening of steps when my parents arrived in less than stylish attire and found it necessary to get out the car and parade it for all to see. Most of all, it would mean the end of the boredom which I firmly believed consumed my life.
This little red book, my driver's license, would mean freedom. I had seen my brother do it and some of my older friends. They did the written test, went to a few driving lessons, went in for the test and presto, they had freedom.
It seemed simple enough. I had been driven all my life, getting my license should have been a cinch. I thought my freedom would be obtained so easy, but it was threatened from the very beginning.
The first threat was my father. He was confused as to why his daughter, who had never expressed the slightest interest in driving or cars, and worse yet was rarely awake in a car even now, wanted to learn how to drive as soon she turned 16. Convinced it was a passing phase he kept insisting I wait a little while. Even worse, this man insisted I go in for a manual license, the more timely and difficult of my options. I was shocked and quite upset and after sulking a little, set about to change his mind. Quite determined...