Driver's Test

I've been searching for just the right metaphor for what it feels like to not be able to run out and get pregnant like most humans, which, gotta say, is a good thing they can or else our species would have died out and where's the fun in that?

It's like this:

Let's say that its time for everyone you know to get their driver's license. So we all head over to the DMV and some get theirs in an afternoon and some take a bit longer. Some need to jump start their engines, some need to take the written a few times. I'm one of the ones who takes longer. I somehow offend the test administrator by asking if that's his real hair but eventually, with a little brushing up and a few more chances, I pass.

Now we all have our drivers licenses. Isn't this fun? We're all driving to the movies and driving to the beach, and borrowing each other's parents' cars to go road tripping to Graceland. We're talking about boys for hours in the front seat and making out with boys for hours in the back. We love our cars and we drive them everywhere, everyday. Couldn't live without them. But we want more.

So I get the bright idea that we should all get our commercial drivers licenses. You know, so that we can all drive big cube trucks filled with pallets of wonder bread or crates of live chickens. But mainly so that we can drive our pick-up trucks filled with picnic coolers and nine passenger vans filled with family and friends. So that there's room for everybody. Open up the party a little bit, the more the merrier. Of course there's room, jump in.

So everyone heads back over to the DMV. And pretty much everyone passes and gets their second license. Now that that's done, they get on with their lives. They drive here and there, back and forth, to and fro. Their pick-ups and trucks occasionally break down, a fender bender here, a new carburetor there, but for the most part, they carry on. Everyone gets older and life goes on. The picnics continue and the nine passenger vans take everyone to the amusement park. And back again, and back again, and back again.

Meanwhile, I'm still back at the DMV trying to get my second licence. I'm told that in addition to the written test, I'll have to write an ode to four way stops and a few haikus on the subject of jug handles. And not only will I have to parallel park the pick-up, but also the van and an 18 wheeler. And I have to do it blindfolded. Wearing nipple clamps. Whistling the entire oeuvre of KC and The Sunshine Band and eating saltines.

I acquiesce to their obstacle course because I'm less nimble than my peers and I deserve the extra hoops. But I'm not graceful about it. Or humble. I whine and shake my fists at the big-chested, ball-busting DMV matriarch. Sure I'm ticked at myself and at her, but my frustration lies partly in not being able to get on with my life. In being left behind to do Brownies over and over again while everyone else "flies up" to Girl Scouts. What took an afternoon for most is taking three years for me. I feel embarrassed. I feel immature. My frustration and anger is at times palpable. Everyone has progressed and evolved, become wiser and knowing. They're grown ups and I'm a perpetual teen who's atrophied just before the brink of this seminal milestone. I, the flunky, the dunce. The child.

So I try to enjoy my awesome car as much as I can. I know I'll get that commercial license by hook or by crook. Just a few more months balancing on one foot and rote recitations in iambic pentameter. Just a few more interviews and essays and fingerprinting. And health examinations and tax returns and affidavits from my shrink. Just five more letters of recommendation, four more two-hour grilling sessions, a home visit and a criminal background check ought to do it.

And then I can get on with my life. Evolve, mature, carry on and catch up with the rest of the crowd if they'll have me. And finally do what it is I could have been doing all this time, (was it wasted time?) with all the time that I spent spinning my wheels, frustrated as hell, jumping through hoops.