Reminder

I wasn't a natural driver. Not even vaguely.

My intrepid father took me out in his old brown Toyota in the rural backroads of Hadley, Mass., and probably had about 200 heart attacks while I mercilessly ground down the gears and went the wrong way around stop signs at three-way intersections. For months and months.

It sucked. I hated every minute of those lessons—which can't have been anything close to fun for him either (thanks for the braces also, Dad!)—and was fully convinced I'd never be able to drive without endangering the locals. Never. Ever. Don't get it, can't do it. Hell no.

But eventually, some kind/foolish soul gave me a license. I went off to college and got a used car from my brother, then sold it back to him and got a used car from my mom, named it after a fictional racehorse, took it across the country, and turned it into a sticker fest with a personality.

Somewhere in there, I learned to drive. Then I started enjoying it. Then I loved it. Now I love it.

No idea when that happened. It wasn't a sudden breakthrough or moment I can pinpoint. I just noticed one day that I didn't have to think about it, that it was completely freeing, and it became a joy and a convenience all wrapped up in one glorious steel package.

The same cycle happens in little ways constantly, and in critical ways every once in a while. This is awful, it'll never end, I can't stand it, it's impossible . . . hey, it's over. And I can take myself anywhere.

Letting time pass is the only panacea I entirely trust.