Yes, I know, it's that one Cake song that we all put on mix CDs for our crushes in college. But even more so, it's been my nighttime activity this last month.
I grew up in a family that drove American-made, beast-like automatics. Cadillacs and Oldsmobiles, mostly hand-me-downs from other relatives. I think there was this general feeling among that hand-down-to-me generation, who were all mostly farmers or farmer offspring, that driving cars had to be automatic.
I learned how to drive on my grandma's Cadillac Seville and my parents' Pontiacs, so there was no way that a manual transmission came into the picture for a moment. They were definitely automatic people. I don't think I would've even known that manuals existed, if it weren't for my friend Diana. I was with her as she learned how to drive stickshift in her aqua Saturn. I was with her when she stalled on a few roads, intersections, and drive-throughs, while learning. I thought, at the time, that it was all rather stressful. Why would someone choose a car where you have to think that much?
Here I am now, an Angelino who relies on her car and has discovered that stickshifts are not just about being cheap and overthinky. They take less gas, they cost less money, and -- well, there's generally a less-is-actually-more associated with all aspects of stickshifts. They make sense (as opposed to cost cents).
In addition, Russell drives a stickshift. In fact, almost everyone I know drives a stick. I am a lone holdover from another generation with my Nissan and its $45 gas fill-ups. One day I was thinking about what would happen if I, in some unlikely hypothetical situation (situations that I, with my love of scenarios, come up with daily), had to drive somewhere and Russell's car was my only option? I wouldn't even be able to leave the driveway. I hate these sorts of realizations because it means that I take myself out of the hypothetical and decide upon one of two responses:
1.) Stay exactly in my present state of automaticy, feel the shame of knowing that I could better myself, but was just too lazy/unmotivated/ignorant to do so
or
2.) Put my money where my mind is and start asking for help to learn how to drive stickshift (and as a bonus result, also feel empowered, excited, and -- well, I can't think of another e-word, but basically, good).
I hate option two. But it's the only one that lets me function without anxiety-induced bodily gas.
So I've found myself driving around empty parking lots on weekend nights, with Russell in the passenger seat, giving me directions while I stall and have near misses and get laughed at my the security guard in the golf cart (who incidentally, doesn't drive a stick, so although I would technically be able to tell him to go suck it, I can't because his golf cart is electric and thereby, unsucky). I've never driven a truck before, so even being up high is a change of pace for this down-low (sedan) girl. Nothing, though, has rocked me harder than learning the fine art of, in Russell's words, "let up on the clutch, push down on the gas." Actually, those are Russell's dad's words that we laugh about because of how frustrating they can be, repeated in rapid succession in monotonation. What Russell actually says, as my stickshift guru, is that there's a moment when the clutch "catches," and once you feel that catch, you let up gently on the clutch and press down on the gas.
It all sounds like goobey-frubu to me. At least, it did at first. Then, I had my moment of catch while zooming through the lot a few weeks ago and I figured out what he meant. One day, when I'm a stickshift guru, I will tell my inductees that this catch means convergence. When both the gas pedal and clutch are at the same place at the same time, it's this magical moment. Then, they must continue and move away from each other again, thus breaking said magic. But it's a beautiful moment when they're together and they catch. Maybe it's what catching a wave while surfing feels like, although I'll never know since I draw the line at learning new skills that may include shark attack. In the end, it's knowing I made two disparate elements come together, just for a moment -- call me gear-heard, but it really is a thrill.
Don't let me fool you entirely with my fresh-faced idealism, though. This stickshift business is tough. There's a new place in my brain that I have to break into in order to mentally understand and get up the gusto to go do this driving. Sometimes, I get frustrated with myself, Russell, the security guard and I know I've done some damage to Russell's transmission. But I'm going to continue practicing because, as far as my life goes, driving a stickshift catches.
Espresso Snowcap Cookies 
