She's a Maniac (maniac on the floor...)

Today I'm under the influence of some kind of hormonal storm front. At least that's the story I'm sticking with. It's a real shame too, because it is such a beautiful day outside. We even went out in it, climbed a mini mountain near our house. You'd think that would have done the trick, snapped me out of this funkadelic gully. And I think it might have had a shot of working. But then my husband made a fatal mistake. He decided, post hike, with my adrenaline high and my blood sugar low and no clear read on the status of the emotional storm front, that this would be a good moment to teach me to drive a stick shift.

Bad idea. Very very baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad idea.

He had tried to warm me up to this idea on the hike, and you'd think from the chilly reception his brainchild had received that he would have pressed the abort button by now. But no, not my ever ambitious husband, who believes that through the sheer force of his will he can get people to enjoy the things that he enjoys, whether that be skiing very quickly down a mountain, or enjoying the supposed extra control of the vehicle that driving stick shift affords. I'll also take this moment to remind you that I resent very strongly no longer having the NYC subway system available to me, and I do not, generally, enjoy having what little control I do currently have over my vehicle.

Danger, Danger Will Robinson. Abort. Abort.

I get in the driver's seat of his car, a cute little pearly white Subaru Impreza. That is all I can tell you about the car: it's color and it's name. Oh, and it has some ugly little fin thing on the hood that I think is necessary because of something called Turbo. I asked if we could get the car without the fin thing and was summarily told: No.

I adjust the seat until my knees are up my nose, allowing me to fully depress the surprising third petal, the almighty CLUTCH. Bruno asks me to put my right foot on the brake, and I promptly get disoriented by the involvement now of my left foot in the process, and touch my right foot to the gas. The car makes an unpleasant revving noise. Bruno starts hollering, "Gas and Brake haven't changed! It's the same as in your car!"

I am not off to a good start.

At this point, I seriously can't remember which petal is the gas and which is the brake, which as far as I'm concerned disqualifies me from ever driving stick shift again, but my ever optimistic husband has set his sights on success and insists we continue. I take a deep breath, try to visualize being in my car (will I have time to do this while barreling down the highway?), and press the break. Under Bruno's instruction, I move the stick into neutral.

Clutch still depressed, I now am told to press lightly on the gas, until the little needle thingy is between 2 and 3. OK, mission accomplished. Are we done now? Nope, now I've got to keep my gas foot just where it is, move the car into gear #1, and slowly, gently release the clutch.

Seriously, people do all these different things at once while moving at great speeds? See, this is why they INVENTED AUTOMATIC.

OK, I manage to do all these things, and the car actually starts moving forward without any more of those revving or chugging or choking noises. OK.

And then the people appear.

What had been an empty street at the end of a mountain has now rolled into a little residential street with people. And dogs. And little kids.

I ask Bruno how to stop, and he tells me I'm doing fine. I repeat my request, through gritted teeth with a shrillness in my voice exposing the state of complete panic I am now in, and am once again told that I am doing fine.

EEERRRCCCHHH! <---- That's my best approximation of the sound the car now made as I stepped on clutch and brake simultaneously and immediately, tossed the stick back into neutral, wrenched up the emergency break, and hopped out of the pearly white devil car.

I marched around to the passenger seat, passing Bruno on his march toward the driver's. He looked about as angry as I felt.

He starts up the car, drives us in silence away from the residents, dogs and kids, and then we both start to shout at once:

"Why do you have to panic all the time!?" "Why wouldn't you tell me how to stop!" "Why can't you just trust me, you were fine!" "I was in a moving vehicle and I didn't know how to stop it, I wasn't fine!" "What do you mean you didn't know how to stop it: you just stopped it" "I took a guess: I didn't know what the hell I was doing! And who are you to decide what I do and don't need to know?!" "YOU WERE FINE!"

Needless to say, all of this excitement pretty much eliminated the idea that our hike would put me in a better mood. I've been an emotional maniac all afternoon. Although I must say, writing this posting (aka: tattling on my husband) has made me feel much, much better.