Memoirs of a Fat Girl

All $ave ditched me. Can you believe it? All I did was run three stop signs, ride the curb, and kill a hedgehog. And they *ditched* me.

Nah, that's not what happened. What did happen was, All $ave decided not to call me back. That, I can believe. I waited a week for one of their illustrious instructors to place a call, since that's what the receptionist told me would happen, and zip. I guess they were too busy buying coffee and treats for all those pimply teenagers.

Feeling that intense desire to get my life on track, and quickly, I made more calls. It's funny how booking driving lessons can be such a hassle. Some places are all filled up, others want you to sit in a class for a zillion hours (I already HAVE my license, people!), and some have given up their services, period. I guess I would too, I mean, some of these rejects actually do run stop signs, ride curbs and kill hedgehogs. Imagine sitting in a car and putting your life in the hands of a punk who wants to blare the stereo and impress his girlfriend.

Near the bottom of my list was a place called The Metropolitan Driving School. Fascinating name, no? Get in the car, and drive metropolitan-like around the metropolitan vicinity. Not just that, but Metropolitans are up there on my most excellent alcoholic drinks list. Could this be a sign?

I was about to take it as one, until I read the moniker at the bottom of the ad, and I have to say it weirded me out. It said, "We specialize in European style driving."

Okay. What exactly is European style driving? Learning how to manuever the smallest cars in the universe? Being extremely profane with fashionable flair? Steering expertly with your left hand, because you’re so busy talking with the right?

I needed more input. I asked moms what European style driving was, but she just managed a one word answer: "What?"

Moving along, then. I asked my dad. He gave a one-word answer too: "Standard."

Well, I can appreciate that. Most people in Europe drive stick. I didn’t think he was totally right though, so I asked Oli. Her word: "Aggressive!"

But of course. If you’ve ever stood across the Arc du Triomphe in Paris and even contemplated putting one toe in the street, never mind crossing it, you are a brave, brave soul indeed. My hat goes off to you. If you’ve never been to that little nook, just imagine a five point intersection - that’s right, five - with hundreds of completely irrational French drivers sitting on their Citroen horns and screaming en masse, "Merde!"

Immediate European style driving won out over waiting for the coffee and treats. I booked an appointment.

Two days later, Milosz and his black Honda Prelude awaited on my driveway. At first glance, I guessed that Milosz was in his early fifties. He spoke in a very calm, even tone, which I took as a good sign. Nothing like a screamer when you’re fucking up a merge. Milosz also had a pierced ear, and reeked of cologne. Not so good sign.

Barely a minute after I’d turned the key in the ignition, the European style driving question was answered. It wasn’t about agreessiveness or stick shift, but about understanding an instructor with a very thick European accent, in this case, Polish. Milosz told me to verry carefooly poot car in revers, bek out ov drivevay vile toorning veel all da vay to da right, which I did with ease, and then to sheeft to drive, toorn veel bek, step on guess ent go.

It wasn’t so bad, really. I think I was just stressing myself out over driving and hedgehog slaughter. Sure I was rickety at first from being out of practice, but in no time at all I was comfortable, relaxed, and speeding.

Not five minutes into my lesson, Milosz began to pepper me with questions, the first being, "Do you hef a husband or boyfriend?"

The second the "No, I just broke up with my boyfriend," came out, I wanted to kick myself in the head. This is what happens when I speak before I think.

Milosz replied back with, "I see. I em also deevorced."

You must be thrilled, however, all I wanted was driving lessons. So I replied back, thinking he’d take the hint, "That’s too bad. How am I doing so far?"

"Fine, fine. Vat made you break up vit your boyfriend?"

The hint had obviously been lost. Knowing very well that he had control of the car’s extra brake and I’d be forced to finish this conversation, I said, "Well, I guess he just wasn’t the nicest person to me. Should I make a left here?"

"Yes, take da left. Goot for you. You did da right ting ent never kvestion yor decision. Es for me, my vife ent I just fell out ov luv."

Why do people mistake me for someone who gives a shit? I so don’t! I just want to drive again and get a damn car! "I’m sorry to hear that. I’m going to get onto the main road now."

"Goot, goot. I em feefty-vun, how olt are you?"

"31."

Milosz laughed. "Vy, you are steel a baby!"

Yeah, a baby that will never wear tight jeans for you! "I have an old mind. So how am I doing so far?"

"You are doo-eenk very, very vell. Now tell me, vat do you tink ov my aksent?"

I checked my blind spots then said, "You sound a lot like my dad."

Sweet, dead silence. If it wasn’t for the engine, you could’ve heard a pin drop. Then after a minute, "Okay, you try parallel parkink over here betveen dees two cars. Take it nice ent slow."

I made sure he didn’t see my smirk. Driving lessons are going to be a snap.