DISTRACTED DRIVER

I Can’t Park My 1992 Fleetwood Cadillac Anymore

From rear glances to rear cameras

I used to be able to park my 1992 Fleetwood Cadillac between two cars without more than a couple of glances over my shoulder. The 1992 Fleetwood was the longest Cadillac ever made. I parked like I had a Ph.D. in valet. Then I got pregnant and I couldn’t park my Honda Civic on an empty city street.

When I was 8 1/2 months pregnant, while trying to park, I drove my Civic into a fancy SUV and kept driving. I didn’t stop even after I heard our cars crunch and meld into one.

I remember thinking I should stop, but my reflexes were being crushed by a gigantic unborn baby. When I got out to apologize and hand my insurance information over, the woman took one look at me and said, “Don’t worry about it,” and drove away. Fast.

I remember thinking, that’s so nice of her, letting me off the hook because I’m pregnant, but I think it was self-preservation. My car was a beater at the time, completely dust-covered, the kind people write wash me on.

I was enormous at 8 1/2 months. The SUV driver probably thought the baby had already crowned and she didn’t want to stick around to help facilitate a birth near her fancy automobile. A dent was preferable to an unbiblical cord.

When I was pregnant my mailwoman once said to me, “You can tell you’re having a girl because she’s stealing your looks.” She was an asshole but it was also true. I looked like I slept on the propeller of a helicopter. I was big and scary and I’d have driven away from me too.

When I was pregnant, my work day went from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m. I fell asleep on tables and in hallways. I looked like shit, but my car insurance didn’t go up when I crashed into someone because I looked like I was carrying an end-of-the-world contagion and a baby.

I started being able to drive again after my son turned four or so. I wasn’t up to my previous level of expertise but I wasn’t playing bumper cars with SUVs either. Then the pandemic hit and I stopped driving.

I ordered Instacart and Amazon so I could finally lean into my secret ambition to be an introvert. I occasionally got into my car, but the roads were empty and I wasn’t the only one driving slow. Me and the other drivers were road zombies.

For those of us working at home, driving was freedom from our four walls, so we lingered. People stopped mid-street and put on their double blinkers. We might as well have been driving golf carts.

Once I started driving at regular speed and usual destinations again, I’d forgotten how. I’d originally learned on stickshift so driving an automatic was problematic.

It was like I had dementia and I could only remember the childhood of my driving days. My recent memory was shot. I could tell you my first car was a Ford Ranger but I couldn’t remember the make and model of the one in my garage.

Stick was the driving style I remembered, so I got in my car and my feet got confused. I tried to change gears with my gas and my breaks and that wasn't even the worst part of my driving.

I was totally in my head. What peripheral? I was so used to sitting behind my desk, I looked through the windshield like I needed to put words on it. I couldn’t make the connection that my screen was translucent and a tool that showed me what lies ahead. Don’t even get me started on side windows. I didn’t see them.

I started hitting objects like the brick wall outside my garage. I scraped the side of my car against heavy trashcans. Even when I heard scraping sounds and crunching, I did not stop. I dinked a fire hydrant. I somehow unhinged my hood. I legitimately forgot how to drive.

I could see people, but not objects. I thought about doing my errands on my bike, but if I couldn’t see my surroundings, wouldn’t that put me in imminent danger? Death or destruction — those were my choices.

Other cars started hitting mine too. Two times in two weeks I got hit in the YMCA parking lot, just bashed into. No one could see each other. I was not the only one who forgot how to drive.

My husband never forgot how to drive. That fact amazed me. I am still surprised anyone remembers how to drive. These days, I can’t park my Subaru in a two-car garage without driving over something.

I only have one choice. I pull up to my house, walk upstairs and ask my husband to come park the car. Does that mean I hate feminism? No, it means I‘m not afraid to hand over the keys when I can’t remember what the wheel is for.