My Chauffeur

One of my earliest memories in life is being pushed along by my mom in an old canvas baby buggy. I found it quite a pleasant experience, riding along wedged between a couple of bags of groceries while sucking in fresh air scented with musty canvas. Life was good that first year. I had my own form of personal transport, I had my mom to wait on me day and night, and I could piss in my pants without getting yelled at. The only thing that could ruin an outing in the old buggy was when my whiny older sister would tire out, and then mom would jam her in next to me.

The allure of the automobile might stem from those days. I know I couldn't wait until I turned sixteen and got my license. For forty years after that occasion I spent at least half of my life behind the wheel. That's why it was so hard for me to give it up when my doctor told me I was too damn blind to be driving.
"If you have a bad accident and I'm subpoenaed Alan, I'll have to tell them, that guy can't see shit."
So I quit driving.
Now, after more than five years I've got used to it. I don't get the urge to jump in the car and take off. Instead I now have Mark to haul my ass around town, and despite what you're thinking I don't sit in the back like Miss Daisy and nag him. I do that from the front passenger seat.

Yesterday we had to take the car in to have it checked out before our big trip up north, and I have discovered just how much I have adapted to this set up. Without the car available for Mark, I was miserable. Not because he couldn't drive me here and there. No, I was miserable because I was stuck at home with him all day. I assume he was also miserable, he couldn't get to the mall.