If ya don't like my driving, stay off the road could've been my slogan when I was learning to drive. Unlike most people who were driving at 16, I was 27-- bulging with expectant parenthood.
Not only was it a tight squeeze, between me and the steering wheel, I was cursed with learning on a stick-shift in my husband's original VW Bug.
While my daughter was busy kicking me in the ribs, I was ready to stick the shifter! Frustrated that I wasn't sequencing that well with the clutch, brake, gas and stick, I'd decided that childbirth would be a hiccup compared to learning to drive that antique.
Tom was an airline captain and I was expecting that he was going to call ahead for special clearance--that an erratically driving female was loose on the road.
I'd managed to run over a row of rosebushes, cut the turn on the corner, causing a flabbergasted pedestrian to jump back a few feet.
Finally, after many driving lessons, I was ready to get my license. Lucky for the man testing my driving ills-- I mean skills--he passed me, out of sheer self-preservation. I guess hormonally-challenged females, this close to poppin', was something he didn't want to face--again.
It's a lucky thing I never became an airline pilot...