I’m a good driver, I am.

You don’t believe me?

Okay. You got me.

I’m a decent driver (when I pay attention and I don’t bother with my phone or my music or my lipstick).

I think I could even make “A” marks if it wasn’t for parking.

What is it about the everyday process that makes me forget the dimensions of my car?

Is it the fact that I can go at my own pace? With no speed limits or speed minimums to throw me off?

Or maybe it’s the white marked spaces? So sterile, so orderly, so efficient?

Or that it’s an act of solitude?

Must I always need an audience to perform my best?!

Alone on the windy streets near my apartment, I’m often filled with panic as I try to squeeze into the tight spots. I have all the time in the world to get my car parked to perfection, but even all the time in the world isn’t enough to stop my angst.

And when I’m not street parking, I’m reversing into a tiny spot built for mini coopers (i.e., the spaces behind my apartment). Sure, it’s tricky back there, but I think I’m the only one who, a year into living there, slammed their car into the building’s corner.

My poor car.

Once so pretty and navy, now scuffed with white and red.

But fear not, I’m never one to abandon damaged goods.

I just dream about the far-off future.

A time when I’ll have the money to get those dents removed.

And when I have the cash a-flowing I’ll take my ugly car to the finest body shop (without being a rip-off because Mama didn’t raise no fool) and say: “make her right again, Boss.” And the repairman/car doctor will nod and get to work with his nimble but subtle hands, reminding me that everything is going to be ok and that I needn’t cry. And when my car comes back, all shiny and fixed, I’ll pat that hood and ask how it feels to be hot again. And my car will say, “It feels great, but I’m a little insecure about my bumper. Is it too big? Shouldn’t it be more narrow?” And I’ll sigh and say, “Once you start with cosmetic surgery, all you want is more. You just can’t win in LA can you?” And my car will cry tears of oil and debris and whine for premium gas, even though it’s tank is already loaded, threatening to overheat. So I’ll tune the radio to our favorite, “Car Talk” and soothe it to a humming sleep, as rest fixes many a problem. And in the morning we’ll wake up refreshed, if a little groggy and slightly insecure, and we’ll go out into the day, facing traffic, cops who haven’t met their quotas, and drivers with more rage than Ronnie after 3 long islands, 3 gallons of steroids, and 3 fights with Sammy Sweetheart, but facing them together nonetheless.

And that’s what’s really important, right?

image via media bistro