I’m happy I can’t drive

Sometimes I mourn aspects of abled life I’ll never experience – skipping, juggling, steady hands and a warmth for the human race. But driving? No thanks.

It’s not like driving is out of bounds for me either. There are companies out there who redesign cars to suit your disability. If they could replace the car wheel and the pedals with a joystick or two – like the one I use to drive my electric chair – who knows what the possibilities might be. I could be so much more of an inspiration than I already am.

I’d also be angry at every driver who wasn’t me. I’ve sat in so many cars where the driver spends the journey shouting threats at every other driver on the road. Too fast. Too slow. Why did you turn? Why did you stop? Why do you exist?

Once you get that license to hit the road it seems you’re doomed to a tragic form of self-righteousness. Nobody’s driving exactly how you drive, and so everyone’s wrong, and so everything sucks. There’s a reason why car adverts usually consist of irrelevant metaphors or show the car on an open road – if they showed it on a busy motorway the viewer would start criticising all the other drivers on screen and the whole “life will be awesome” fantasy would vanish immediately.

As with walking, it’d be cool to drive for a day but after a few weeks I think the thrill would be gone. I’d have someone beeping at me to accelerate through a green light as I’d sit daydreaming about eating ice cream, because everything else just becomes routine.


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