Didn’t I tell you yet? I’ve joined (rejoined!) driving class a couple of weeks back. Going out of home, especially without a diaper bag, a baby and a husband felt painfully weird at first. How does even a woman walk without clasping a crying child in one arm and an overly stuffed diaper bag in the other? I felt too light when I walked towards the driving school, which felt more like an inconvenience rather than freedom.
Carrying a muddled mind within, I hesitantly continued attending the classes everyday because the nearly obsolete outdoorsy, independent freak in me felt immensely excited because of this unexpected attention being poured towards rejuvenating the old soul in me.
I’m not sure if my tutor is the best tutor on earth but she is good enough for a confused learner like me. She never hesitates a bit to answer my questions and sometimes even implores to demand her for finer details on driving. I mean, isn’t that enough to call her a great tutor! In case you imagined me sitting sincerely in the driver’s seat with a professionally-postured lady tutor alongside enjoying the emptiness of the rear seat reflecting the cool AC back on us, you’ve probably imagined it all wrong, except my sincerity, for that alone is right :P.
Our practice vehicle looks more or less like the overloaded Blobby of Hotel Transylvania that takes a mandatory deep breath of sigh after every clutch/brake/accelerator press, except the fact that it’s neither made of jelly nor has an irresistibly adorable, animated look. I don’t call it a car at all because cars in general would never accommodate half of the town’s population and asphyxiate them to death. But, it’s a waste of time to brood over it as I live in India and this is the most you can expect from any driving class. As long as no one takes advantage of everyone else’s uncompromised private space, things should go just fine. Thankfully, this population I’m talking about is a fun troop of married women of all possible ages who crack cheesy jokes about their unquestionably innocent husbands every now and then to keep the crowd as frisky as possible.
When I get back home, my dupatta pongs of every other tutee’s sweat kissed perfume. Most of them must be using the bargain-priced, chintzy antiperspirants gifted by their relatives in Gulf countries. Wait, no, that’s a lot of gross I am typing in. Can’t help myself, because unlike fiction which is dearly, dreamy and dramatic, reality, inturn is spontaneous and most of the time stinks, you gotta learn to live with such blooper-filled moments too anyway. After a nice bath, I let go of the foreign fragrance along with any faint memory related to it, become the mommy figure of the house once again, leaving no stones unturned to do all possible epic motherly $#!+ for my perfectly imperfect family.