A Story about All the Firsts I can Think of

Approximately 7 years ago, my family bought a car. It was a shiny, red, manual Hyundai Elantra. I never particularly loved or hated this car until December 19, 2012, the day I got my permit, when my dad told me I needed to learn to drive it because when I turned 16, that would be my car. I entered the driver’s seat of the car once my dad got it to the church parking lot feeling pretty cocky; I felt fairly confident about my driving abilities in an automatic so I figured that a stick shift really wouldn’t be that much different.

            I was proved to be terribly wrong. After a few minutes of stalling the car, I managed to jerk it forward and do an unsteady lap around the parking lot. Driving this car was not at all like my first time learning to ride a bike, according to my mother, I just hopped right on my bike and rode down the street after my dad had taken off my training wheels, without even noticing that they were gone. I was a natural bike rider, but the same cannot be said for my first time driving a stick shift. After an hour of tears of frustration from me and tears of pain from my father, (he was sure I had given him whiplash) he traded me places and drove us home.

            I have a confidence issue where I believe that if I am not perfect at something right away, that makes me the worst thing that has ever lived on the planet. So, as you can imagine, my first time driving a stick shift did not help my self-esteem. I tried to put the incident out of my mind and I did a fairly good job of it, effectively procrastinating learning how to drive the car until July 21, 2013, also known as the first day of the rest of my life, also known as my sixteenth birthday. Receiving my driver’s license and with the constant reminders that school was rapidly approaching, I plucked up some courage and picked up the shattered pieces of my dignity and told my dad I was ready to try again. However, he, still claiming to be suffering from whiplash, was not ready, and told me to just go to the parking lot and figure it out myself. I begged and begged him, saying that I needed to learn how to drive the stick because I was not going to ride the bus-that dropped me off at 7:05 every morning- again like I did all of my first year at Lone Peak High School. Once it became apparent that he was not going to help me, I decided to be independent and figure it out by myself.

            I screeched the car around the parking lot, but the good news was that I could at least get the car moving. I was feeling pretty good about my life when my neighbor knocked on my door and said, “I can’t help but notice that you seem to be struggling to drive this car. But, you’re in luck because I just happen to be really good at driving stick.” When he offered his services, I threw my idea of independence out the window and listened with rapt attention as he explained to me what he had learned from his year of driving a stick.

            This time driving went considerably better; it was the first time I didn’t stall and the first time that I managed to start without the whole car jerking forward. It was the first time I referred to the stick as “my car” instead of the usual “death on wheels” and it was also the first time I really got to know the boy who has ended up as one of my best friends.