In my spare time – of which I have a lot – I read esoteric medical journals for leisure. I need to constantly feed my superior intellectual capacity.
I wish. Actually, all I've been feeding lately is my stomach. While digesting, I do a lot of random internet surfing.
I recently came across a study that claims the the part of our brain that controls our ability to sing is the same exact part that determines our ability to drive a car, among other motor skills.
This makes perfect sense to me. I suppose millions of dollars have been spent on research to establish this correlation. What a waste of money in these times of austerity. They could just have interviewed me.
I’ve already posted on my musical ability (or lack thereof). I may also be the world’s worst driver in the over-40/has driven-for-over a- decade category.
When I was learning to drive, I went through countless instructors including my dad, a former friend who doesn’t speak to me anymore and Mang Ernie from the AI-Driving Academy. At one point, I had to politely ask him not to shout at me so loudly. Between Mang Ernie's saliva showers and my excessive sweating, the steering wheel and the driver’s seat were drenched at the end of each of our one-hour lessons.
High-strung individuals have no business riding with me. Old ladies have had to resort to praying the rosary out loudly (Hello, Tita Pining!). Little girls have been reduced to screams until they faint from exhaustion (Hello, Carla and Chuchai!). Adult men have found themselves incoherently muttering unsolicited instructions (Hello, Stefan and Kristanto!).
My sense of direction is abysmal. My idea of defensive driving is incessant honking. I can not parallel park. I do not know how to change a flat tire.
But, hey I’m not so bad. Regardless of emperical evidence and whatever the egg-heads in the science journals say, I do appreciate the convenience of having a car and, on occasion, I do enjoy driving (short distances, familiar routes, good company, no traffic, favorite CD playing). Even then, I will drive if I have to and you’re welcome to ride with me but don’t say I didn’t warn you and, for God’s sake, don’t cry.
But, if you prefer to drive, I won't stop you.