Just seven months ago I made note of my car having logged 100,000 miles. And now another milestone: My 15 1/2-year-old offspring drove the old beast today. I only stomped on the invisible brake once. There was a close call on a curve in the road as a sport ute was coming the other way, but we escaped unscathed. What’s that? Oh, yes, I do believe I sprouted a few more gray hairs today.
They make me look distinguished, I’m told. Except by my son. He just says I’m old. Punk.
I’ve heard from several parents of teenagers and pundits who claim to be experts on the subject who say many teens of a certain age show no interest in driving. Why should they, the pundits argue, when they have parental taxi services and video games occupying all of their waking moments? My son is not afflicted with this syndrome. No, he wants to drive; he craves that feeling of independence and freedom.
I can relate.
But I won’t tell him what an idiot I was at 16. It might give him ideas …