Adventures in Driving at Home in Connecticut.

I back out of my drive.

My armpits gush like twin faucets so old and broken they can no longer be turned off.   My hands clutch the steering wheel – the palms thick with swamp life. The overpowering fear I have of driving a car again makes me a breeding ground for bacteria. 

If penicillin hadn’t already been discovered, I’m sure I ooze the microbes that made Fleming famous, if only he swabbed me first. 

I have traveled around the world and back. And yet, before I even journey out of sight of my house, I am a gibbering, whimpering petrie dish.  

Yes! Without a map or a guidebook,  I’ve found a Dunkin’ Donut!  

Oh, it's easy to be a fearless traveler in Burma or Nepal.  Who could lose sight of  the Shwedagon Pagoda or Mt. Everest?   On the other hand, how does anyone find a landmark in Milford, Connecticut?  Every block has a mall, a donut shop, a gas station and a deli! It all looks the same to me.

My over-size polka-dot drink glass is too large for the car's cup holder, so I lodge my iced decaf between my thighs and head for the highway. 

Now stealthily onto I-95.  My heart hides in my stomach -- I can feel it beating against the steering wheel.   It hopes that even if I have a heart attack, somehow secluded and cushioned by my belly, it will survive.

All the people on the road this morning are unaware that I am driving again.   Worse,  if I am not super alert, I can upend the futures of generations of strangers with one bad lane change.  

It is not just that I am living in a new town -- even an unfamiliar new state.   The Audi is also a new for me. Besides, except for a couple of practice forays I have not driven any car for eight months.  

Partly it's that I'm mending a  badly broken wrist from a fall in Mexico.  In fact, I am on my way to hand therapy now.   Jed, my husband, who has driven me twice a week for months is away for two days.

Gaining confidence, I speed up,  passing exit  25  -- ready to turn swiftly onto 25A.  What?  There is no 25A.  I am at exit 24.  I've passed my exit.  Not to worry, I will simply get off at the next exit, zip around and re-enter I-95 North,  get off at  25A and figure out where I am from there.

First part executed perfectly.  I am off I-95 and ready to turn left.   Except instead of the turn signal I touch the windshield wipers and suddenly they are all going at once, front and back.   

I manage to quiet the front wipers --  the back wipers keep up a noisy Charleston as I drive.

Up the North ramp, windshield wipers dancing on my back window as I look for 25A, but there is no 25A exit.   When I exit, I recognize nothing.  

My tuchas is on fire!

Oh, no!  I must have accidentally switched on the seat warmer because my ass is burning and I am shifting around in my seat like a fried egg on a griddle.  The good news is I can grab my iced coffee and reach around to chill my backside.

Then just as I am about to give up forever I spot the turn in next door to Hand Therapy!

Despite detailed directions home,  the 25 minute drive takes me slightly less than two hours.  I am tempted to say that only Lewis and Clark in surveying their territory may have covered more of an expanse of land than I did that afternoon.   As a byproduct, I can probably provide a fairly accurate census of three counties by adding up every man, woman, and child I stopped for directions.  When I arrive home I re-read my direction and realize I was supposed to take exit 27A not 25A. 

The next morning, after an hour’s drive to meet my friends Linda and Judy in a town or two over from me,  Judy finds the switch to turn off the seat warmer. No wonder I am burning up, she says.  During this week’s  2-day 94 degree heat wave,  I have somehow set the heat on high instead of turning on the air--conditioner.

Funny!  The heat never bothered me in India.

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