The Driver's Test

On Thursday, my daughter will turn sixteen. I’m letting her sleep in a little late, will take her out for pancakes, and then we'll make the thirty minute drive to the driver’s license bureau.

After she takes her driver’s test, I’ll shuttle her to school. From that point on, I have a feeling the rest of the day will either be all smiles and happiness, or filled with tears and angst.

Yes, the stress of the upcoming test has overshadowed everything else. I think she’s in good company.

Do you remember when you took your driver's test? I sure do. It was my dad's job to take us to the Texas Department of Public Safety. He was a busy guy, and I remember standing in line next to him in his suit, a bundle of nerves.

We waited in line for what seemed like forever. My dad, who believed girls looked their best in heels and dresses, sought to lighten the mood by teasing me about the highway patrol officers. See, there were four patrol officers there, two men and two women. One of the female officers never smiled at anyone. She was at least six feet tall. Blond and brawny. Tough. She looked exactly like the type of person you'd want to come to your rescue if you were getting mugged.

To my sixteen-year-old eyes, she looked like exactly the wrong person to sit next to when attempting to parallel park. My dad-never one to be accused of being politically correct-called her Ms. Big.

Finally, after standing in line for over an hour, my turn came up. I was directed to walk to my car, and to wait for the officer there. My dad walked me to my spot. Gave me a hug and wished me good luck. And then he looked at the officer and grimaced.

Yep, you guessed it. There was Ms. Big with a clipboard in her hands and a giant scowl on her face. I thought I was going to throw up.

We got in. I put on my seat belt. "Insurance?"

"Pardon me?"

She glared. "Insurance?"

That's when my throat went dry. I pointed to my dad, who was standing on the sidewalk in front of us, kind of giving me a thumb's up. "My dad has it."

That was the wrong answer. Ms. Big frowned. "It's supposed to be in here. With you."

And that's when she wrote me a ticket.

I am the only person I know who somehow managed to get ticketed during a driver's exam. After she signed the ticket with flair, she rolled down her window, signalled my dad over, and barked at him to hand over the insurance card.

Until that moment, I had never seen anybody order my dad around! To my shock, he pulled out his wallet, fished out the card, and handed it to her without a word.

Up went her window. Out went the next command. "Drive."

I did! And, somehow, I passed my driver's test. Twenty minutes later, I was walking back to my dad, holding two sheets of paper. One had my test score on it. The other was a fifty dollar ticket.

I sincerely hope my daughter's experience will be far less eventful. Or, maybe not. My dad and I laughed about that test for years. And, well, it is a pretty good story.

Anyone else recall their driver's exam?

Shelley