Snakes on My Last Damn Nerve

(Note: That title has nothing to do with this post, it's just the damnable truth.)

I have a secret to confess: When I was nothing but a wee youngling, I absolutely hated my truck. It's true. And this was back in the day before it was the Truck of Malfunction. It was a Truck of Precision in comparison. But oh how I hated it.

Primarily because I could not drive a stick shift to save my life. That's literally 'save my life' by the way - my existence was constantly in peril whenever I would get behind the wheel of that thing. Originally I would only drive it under extreme duress, preferring to instead drive our incredible clunker of a minivan instead, with its propensity for squealing fan belts, a marked lack of air conditioning, and a smell that on a good day ranked somewhere around 'expired milk'. That's how much I loathed the TOP.

On my very first real date with a girl (shut up!) wherein I actually picked her up by myself, drove her places, and then back home, the minivan refused to work on my way to pick her up. Thus with no warning or preparation time, I was required to utilize the TOP to go get her.

At this point in time, I had driven the truck perhaps 4 times, never longer than 5 miles in any direction. And following each of those adventures I had immediately vowed never to get behind the wheel ever again. Said girl's house was at least a 10 minute drive under ideal conditions.

About 15 minutes into the 10 minute drive, I realized that in my nervous state, I was keeping my foot on the gas every time I tried to shift into 4th gear, which is why the TOP was making that horrible noise. I'm not exactly sure when I realized that I was driving with the parking brake on, but I know it was considerably later in the process than either God or man intended.

I arrived at her house 30 minutes later, following three failed passes at trying to find the house on the side of a busy street while worrying endlessly about the transmission not falling out of the bottom of the truck thanks to my ministrations. By this point every single change in my driving caused anywhere between 3 and 7 horrible noises to occur at once.

Once the girl was actually secured, the fun really began. Because now am I not only nervous about driving, I have a date in the car (a girl!) who I am now responsible for when I manage to throw the car into the wrong gear and off a cliff, or what have you. And we're not even going to scratch the surface of my neuroses involving the actual date itself, wherein I am trying to impress a member of the opposite sex while being the single most awkward pubescent thing on the planet at any given moment in time. Suffice it to say that tensions were high.

Once we were back underway, it became readily apparent that I had no concept of the difference between first gear and third gear. For me, they were interchangeable. Every time I would get to a red light, it was akin to a scene from a horror movie. Only instead of a large breasted woman who keeps falling and breaking her heel, it was a car bucking and stalling every 3.5 seconds. The girl in distress would have outpaced me by miles. And the other motorists, they were not exactly understanding about my difficulties. It was like a cadre of disgruntled New York cab drivers had been hand picked to be behind me at every intersection.

By the time we had made it through the drive to the restaurant and back home, my nerves were so shot that I was twitching and shaking right out of my seat, even more pale than normal, which doesn't seem possible, and yet. Plus...well 'sweating' doesn't actually cut it. It was more a complete aura of perspiration surrounding me, accompanied by a stench of automotive failure so strong that I doubt it has ever been recreated.

Considering the tour of near death I subjected her to, I was remarkably impressed by my date's response to the entire thing - she had obviously been through much worse on dates in the past (which frankly may be the saddest part of the entire ordeal). I actually remember nothing of the date itself, except that I think that the movie Titanic was involved somewhere, which I thought was rather apropos, if nothing else.

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All that to say, I'm very, very close to trading in my beautiful TOM for a brand new used car. And I can hardly bear to part with it, it is now like a physical part of my body. It seems almost ludicrous to think about the old days when I used to fervently wish for its untimely death by explosion, when it had the most amazing A/C unit and brand new everything. Now it has no air conditioning, no gas gauge, and makes loud beeping noises at random intervals for no apparent reason and I love it like it was my own son. Or more to the point, like it was my disowned bastard son who was constantly unemployed, broke, and in trouble with the law. Who I still loved anyway.

God, the similes are failing me today, and hard.

Weird.