"do not open ever again..."
I pulled up to the side of the big brown car, just like Mr. Wallace – my driving teacher in high school – taught me. I checked my mirrors at least 6 times (3 on each mirror), put the car in reverse, turned the wheel as far as it could go, and began to shimmy the car in between the big brown car in front of me and the small red car behind. Suddenly the car bounces -- at first, I assume I hit the red car, or maybe one of the stray cats that always stares at me from underneath different cars on cold mornings -- but thankfully, nope, I just hit the curb… again. I look around to see if my neighbors are all watching from their windows laughing at my misery. Although I don’t see their faces peering through the blinds, my mind knows they are there, relishing in my failure. I put the car in drive, attempt to try again, and that’s when I hear Mr. Wallace’s voice ringing in my ears as if he was sitting right there next to me. He had a thick Southern accent – and every time I hit the curb or bright orange cone, he would scream his head off in between bites of his McDonalds French fries. He would say “Now Missy, you better stop acting like a joker right about now, have you even been paying attention or are you in your own little world when I speak? Or “I’ve never in all my years, and I mean all my living years, seen someone so god damn awful at this!” He was not one to shy away from the Southern crass he knew so well. Mr. Wallace wasn’t just the driving teacher, he was also the football coach, so his yells that seemingly pierced the air with more force when it was my turn to drive, didn’t fade, but only grew louder and louder in my right ear as I attempted (for the 10th time) to successfully parallel park.
One of the other goals of these lessons was to learn to drive on the highway, merge, drive a bit, then get off at an exit of Mr. Wallace’s choosing. By “highway” I mean a two lane “barely a highway-highway.” This thing was nothing in comparison to LA freeways – anyone from LA would scoff if they ever saw what us Vermonters considered a highway. Growing up in a small rural Vermont town meant that the only way to get any decent food – and by that, I mean name brand fast food – was to drive the 30 minutes into New Hampshire on the highway. Mr. Wallace always took our “highway lesson” days as an opportunity – you could see it in the way his face would soften at the thought of us taking the trek to the state just minutes away. This was not because he felt passionate about teaching us the ways of the road, no, this was because right off the exit he would always seem to choose, had the only McDonalds in miles. There I was, scared shitless on this barely a highway-highway, merging lanes to get off at the next exit and driving right into the McDonalds parking lot. All of us, me in the front, and the two other students in the back seat, would beg and plead with Mr. Wallace for just one order of fries. But Mr. Wallace said with almost no expression on his face “not until little Miss up here learns to parallel park…” Everyone groaned, even me, but as I drove up to the window to get Mr. Wallace’s food – the smell of it permeating every inch of that little car – and felt the glares of my fellow students on the back of my head, I was determined. Every single part of me needed to do this, needed to parallel park perfectly as if I was the person who first came up with the term. Not because it was a requirement to pass my driver’s test, but just so we could get McDonalds French fries in the middle of a school day – at the time, a goal far greater than anything I could have imagined.
So here I am, years later, feeling like a complete and utter failure – hearing Mr. Wallace’s thunderous voice in my ear and smelling the notable McDonalds scent as I attempt to do the one thing, I never was able to do, parallel park. You see, we never got those fries, I never accomplished it, not even on my driver’s test. I started to try, turned the wheel, began to back up, and before I could really even call it an “attempt” I panicked and sped off. I think the DMV person felt bad for me, so they just gave me my license anyways. Even after years of living in LA, the goal always seemed too far to reach. I would come home from work and call my roommate to come park for me. I would laugh it off and flip my hair as he seamlessly parked my car for me every single day, probably hating me more and more with each time my name popped up on his phone. But recently, I began feeling what I felt all those years ago when Mr. Wallace put the fries in a place I thought I could never reach, determined. Determined to finally prove to myself that I can grow up and just do it. So, every single day for a bit I have been driving to school or taking my dogs to the park and instead of shamefully driving into my driveway (the one I cannot back out of alone, one day…) I try to do my unimaginable. Finally, after many unsuccessful attempts, tears, hitting the steering wheel and screaming “fuck” over some sad song blasting through the speakers… I do it. I shimmy my little blue car just a bit further, my wheels are right next to curb, not on it, and I put my car in park. I open my door to check my cars position, and it is perfectly in the spot -- parallel parked. I get back in the car and just sit there for a couple of seconds, a smile begins to creep up as a few tears slowly roll down my cheeks – I taste the salt as they make their way into the corners of my mouth. I did it, I thought, I finally did it.
Now, I know, I really know how stupid and silly this sounds – how you must think I am a literal idiot for being in my 20s and just now learning how to park a damn car. But this silly little accomplishment made me remember a bunch of the other goals I set out for myself, that, like parallel parking, I considered impossible. Many of those goals or dreams I said to myself were simply impractical, unattainable, not in the cards for me. So, I put them into a little box in my mind -- sealed tightly with rolls of package tape, and in permanent marker across the top, I wrote, “do not open ever again.” As I have gotten older, the box has gathered more dust, more tape, filled up with more blurry dreams, more plans, more ideas – like finishing a puzzle to see that only one piece has gone missing but knowing you will never find it as your dog stares at you and licks his lips. I have become accustomed to this version of myself, with being fine, being comfortable, merely content, and telling myself “it’s okay” even as the mountain of impossible tasks continues to seem further and grow steeper.
But then… I parallel parked, and it honestly felt like I could do anything, absolutely anything, if I actually tried. If I just got up from my “fine” content corner of the world, I might be able to do and be some of the things I keep telling myself are impossible. I realized, without fully knowing it, I started to peel back the tape on that box I forgot about, piece by piece as I tried to parallel park each day -- without immediately giving up each time I hit the dreaded curb. Each day as I tried again and got a little bit closer – I was driven by this desire to be more independent, to be a happier person. This feeling of wanting to wake up and feel passionate about something, to feel like you aren’t wasting every day, making the same easy moves and comfortable decisions that merely make you feel just fine -- while shutting yourself off to the things you want but that you claim you’ll never be able to do all because they sit in some taped up box that you yourself created.
***
So, I jumped out of my car, the door gently shut behind me as I ran inside my house. I found the box, with a few pieces of tape hanging off, and grabbed an extra-large sharpie from my desk. I sat on the floor and crossed out those words I once believed were permanent and began ripping off more of the tape. I took out a notebook and began to make a list -- #1, #2, #3, and so on-- with boxes next to each task. The first read – “learn how to successfully parallel park,” I grabbed my sharpie and drew a large check mark next it. Now onto #2, I thought. But before I do -- I left the box there with the list on top and ran back out to my little blue car. I hopped in the front seat, checked both mirrors at least 6 times (3 on each), pulled out of my perfectly parallel-parked-spot and drove to the closest McDonalds because it was finally time for some well-deserved French fries.
things I will do …
Successfully parallel park; ✓
Graduate Law School & pass the bar
Go horseback riding in Malibu
Make new friendships/be more social
Get a goddamn new therapist
Write a book/short stories that gets published — write more in general
Go to estate sales in fancy hollywood homes
Have a real picnic at Point Dume — let Betty and Little run around the beach.
See the Walters in concert!
Move to Silver Lake
…
