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On Learning How to Drive
I drove my parent’s
2000 Dodge Durango we had had forever. It was silver and had a dark, faded leather interior and as far as safety, the wobbling front seat was questionable, plus I still hadn’t quite grasped all the basics needed to get my license. My dad taught me how to drive most of the time since my mother had a bad habit when I drove to grab my arm or scream. Either way I lost. One of those days we were sitting at a stoplight and I made a turn. “Congratulations!” he said. I was thrilled, but not for too much longer. “Takes talent to make an illegal U-Turn.” Oh joy. Sarcasm. “Are you going to pass this guy?” Dad hinted, a little passive aggressive in tone. “Uh, I wasn’t planning on it.” I said. Wrong answer. As fathers and their daughters do, yelling occurred. New form of road rage. Dad ate a Snickers and I would stomp up to my room when we both came home. “Looks like you both had quality father daughter time.” Mom said, smirking.
#Unreal #DriversEd #Frustrations #TeenYears #License #FatherDaughterTime
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