Sara,
I’ve spent my entire adult life defending, explaining and deflecting about why I don’t drive. I imagine you’ve experienced something similar, as you don’t drive either. It’s not that we can’t drive, I often find myself clarifying to people — strangers, new friends — it’s that we have both chosen not to. On our fourteen birthday, neither you nor I had any interest in rushing out to get our learner’s permit, even though we had been taught to drive when we were young, atop dad’s lap in his rusted gray Honda Accord and later as teenagers behind the wheel of Bruce’s black Camaro and Mom’s teal Jeep. When we didn’t race out to get a permit they seemed confused — every kid from Alberta wanted to learn to drive and get a car when they turned 16. Calgary is massive and getting around, especially in winter, can be harrowing if you’re taking the bus or the train. But for some reason you and I didn’t seem to mind. Though we got a lot of rides from our parents, I recall enjoying the trek home from school with you on transit. We were latch key kids who took the city bus and train. It made me feel older than I was. We were also high and drunk a lot, so if I’m being honest, I wonder if we had no interest because we would have never driven under the influence and we were almost always under it.
