Teaching my daughter to drive is not how I thought it would be. Initially, I was so excited that she reached this milestone. I’ve always been a strong proponent of her gaining new life skills like cooking a meal or taking more responsibilities around the house. And I thought I would be the best parent to show her the ropes, but ever since she received her permit I’ve learned otherwise. My husband is a much better teacher than I am. He has taken her on the turnpike, the highway and in the city. He has her driving in the rain and at night. He hands over the keys with much less trepidation than I do. For me, it has absolutely nothing to do with her and everything to do with me and my ever persistent anxiety. She is an excellent and careful driver. I know this. Even the driving instructor that we hired from the local professional driving school said she is a natural. This briefly reassured me but then I decided, he didn’t give birth to her. So his opinion, while valued, is irrelevant. My head tells me she knows the mechanics of driving a car and the rules of the road, but my heart keeps attacking me with a terrible case of the what ifs. What if a deer comes out of nowhere or a child chases a ball into the street? She doesn’t have the experience yet to expect the unexpected. And then my anxiety goes into overdrive. Like it did the other night. “What do you mean I can’t drive?” she said. It was a perfect fall evening and we had a short and very familiar distance to go.I had no good reason except that local weatherman Bill Henley said it might rain. Apparently, I put a lot of trust in Bill. Exasperated (and rightfully so), she took her place in the passenger seat, slammed the car door, scrunched into a tight ball, iPhone firmly in hand and that incredulous teenager look on her face. “I just want to drive somewhere and not have to worry about you getting us there.” I told her. Which by the way is the wrong thing to say when you are trying to raise a confident driver. “This is ridiculous. You know I need 20 more hours before I can take my test. How am I going to get them, huh?” I stayed silent letting the latest Taylor Swift song coming from the radio fill the void. “Are you even listening to me?” she asked not willing to be ignored. “Do I have a choice?” I sighed. At this point, I briefly considered pulling over and switching places, but I couldn’t let her drive mad. Could I? No. My father always said never drive angry. Meanwhile, she was furiously texting what I can only imagine to be something like “My mom is being a total bitch. It’s so unfair.” In a quieter and slightly calmer voice she asked, “Will you let me drive home?” “In the dark?!” I replied instinctively, not really meaning to say that out loud. Clearly, that was the wrong response.
Today’s First World Problem
Every morning, I arrive outside the locked door to my office and have to stop in my tracks and hunt down my pass card to let myself in. I know it is in one of three bags that I have with me at all times – my purse, my tote and my lunch. The question is – which one? Usually, I can weed out the lunch first. Unless I had very little sleep the night before, there is no way I would ever put my pass card next to my turkey sandwich. That leaves one of two bags – both of which are stuffed with all kinds of crap. And to make it worse – I have a makeup bag and a nice size wallet. Basically, the damn pass card could be anywhere. This is when I get frustrated and proceed to unpack everything from my bags onto the lobby floor. So, if you ever see someone dumping the contents of their purse (and tote bag) on the ground muttering to herself wondering why she puts herself through this every day – that would be me. And to add to my embarrassment, a colleague will eventually show up see my mess, smile and let me in. Why can’t there be one big bag for all of my stuff? And why can’t that bag be large enough for my work folders, hairbrush and Kindle? And why can’t that bag cost less than $75. And why can’t that bag be one that is available in black, gray and navy – ooh and maybe an awesome red to stand out when I’m feeling particularly fashionable. Where is that bag? It is a quest I am willing to go on for all the women in the world who are just like me. Anyone? Anyone?
I Didn’t Ask For It
While working as an obit writer and a stringer for a local newspaper, it happened. One minute I was waiting by the fax machine to receive a death notice from a local funeral home and the next I was grabbed from behind by the hips. I felt his hot breath on my neck and he whispered in my ear, “You should wear short skirts more. It turns me on.” He laughed and then he walked away. I looked to see who it was and recognized him immediately. I was just waiting for a fax. I was just doing my job. I can tell you that the moment it happened to me I was rattled to my core. Confused. Shaken. Furious. I didn’t expect it. I certainly didn’t ask for it. I remember walking back to my desk trying not to let him see how much it affected me. I didn’t want to give him that kind of power. Basically, I ignored it because I thought it was over–but I was wrong. For weeks after that first incident, I was continuously harassed by him. He leered at me in the newsroom. He asked me out several times. He called me at my apartment. I dreaded going to work at a job I loved and really wanted to keep. The stress was unbearable. Somehow, I finally got up the guts to give him a piece of my mind, threatened to tell our boss and the cops and he never bothered me again. I never reported it although I wish I had. I was too embarrassed at the time. I was only 21 years old and it would have been his word against mine. Sadly, this was not the only time I’ve been sexually harassed. As I’ve grown older, I’ve learned to deal with it. It still shocks me when it happens but now I report it and then I live with it. But, I don’t typically talk about it. Until now. Being sexually harassed is a humiliating and degrading experience. It isn’t just “locker room talk.” It isn’t funny. It is pure intimidation. Just like bullying, these experiences will stay with me my entire life. They are ingrained in my memory–as if it only happened yesterday. And now I hear about movie moguls and tech employees at companies like Google and respected news anchors and even U.S. Presidents who don’t think twice about doing it. And I think of the women who speak out and defend themselves at the risk of losing their jobs. I am truly in awe of their courage and applaud them with undying support. And I hope my daughter sees them, hears them and learns from their examples. In the 21st century, sexual harassment clearly runs rampant in our schools, universities, offices and other places. It could happen to her and she needs to be ready to fight back–as I am doing now.