How many 22-year-olds do you know who don’t have a driver’s license, much less experience of any sort behind the wheel?

Well, you’re looking at one.

(You may pick up your jaw now, the floor is quite dusty.)

I took the permit test Friday and passed. Saturday afternoon, my mom and I are cruising towards my parents’ place after a shopping jaunt in this monster when my mother says, “You’re driving home.”

Silent protest: You’re making me drive this THING home?

My palms start getting clammy. I swallow hard as we pull towards the curb, and slowly get out of the passenger’s seat to trade places with my mother.

Put seatbelt on.
Check mirrors.
Release parking brake.
Shift gear from “Park” to “Drive.”
Keep foot on brake pedal.
Make sure no innocent pedestrians or other drivers are nearby to watch this humiliating endeavor.

Go.

End result: I didn’t crash into anything. I didn’t have to slam on the brakes. I even parked the Monster in front of the house with no problem.

I drove a car.
(Okay, I drove a van.)

But rest assured that from now on, no matter how nice it feels to be that high off the ground in such a huge vehicle, I am sticking to learning how to drive in my sister’s little Accent.

And I will not let my mother play driving instructor ever again, either. Not when her instructions go like this: “Follow the line, keep steering this way…yes…now step on the brake! Step on the brake!…Remember to signal. Yes. Good. Reverse and park now. I said reverse! Watch out for the curb!”