I got the nickname “Fastie McFastpants” one cold, blustery day in Cleveland after bolting into the crosswalk several steps ahead of my boyfriend when the light turned green. On account of having a fantastic ring to it, the name stuck for about a month; any longer would have just been dishonest. I am not, by nature, a very fast person. But I wouldn’t describe myself as slow, either. ”Deliberate Delilah” might suit me better.
There is a certain rate of speed at which I go about measuring flour, tying my shoes, and thinking. I wouldn’t know that this rate of speed was slower than the average bear were it not for a long line of roommates, chuckling as they watched me make coffee in the morning, or for my childhood Sabbath School teacher (that’s right) who always told my mom that “Ellen sure takes a long time to formulate her thoughts in class, but she always comes up with something interesting!” Sometimes, I think that my thoughts are formulating so gradually that I might not reach any worthwhile conclusions until I’m 104, and I just might die before then. It’s like my natural wave being longer than my current haircut: when I let my hair go curly, it looks like it got interrupted by a garrulous blast of hot air.
My sluggish tendencies have negatively impacted Richmond’s traffic patterns recently, I’m afraid. I bought a new car about a month and a half ago, but I’m still trying to get used to the clutch. And when I say new, I don’t really mean new at all. Here she is (picture taken before the aforementioned haircut):
This is my first car with a manual transmission, and although I am a pro driving my mom’s 2001 Jetta, this 1971 Volvo makes me look like a baby bunny hill beginner. I’ve never, ever, stalled this vehicle, but I drive like I’m terrified that I will. (Cautious McCarefulpants?) Picture me sitting at the front of a line of cars at an intersection. Pedestrians see the red hand go from flashing to solid, and wait obediently on the corner. My light turns green.
vvvrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrroooooommmm goes the little red car, but somewhere in the middle of the second set of lower-case r’s the pedestrians have become confused and start to jaywalk directly in front of me, the car behind me has grown impatient and is trying to pass me on the right, and many cars are under the impression that I am graciously allowing them to turn right on red. But really I am just trying to figure my shit out.
If I try to let the clutch out any faster, I lurch forward in a way that is more embarrassing than hanging out on the starting line for an extra 5 seconds (seconds which may well have saved my life the other day when someone ran a red light at 50 mph while I was still revving my pretty little engine). Still, it is an unpleasant feeling to get passed by a pair of angry headlights, only to get cut off by contemptuous taillights, all before you’ve even managed to get to the other side of the intersection. When this happened to me tonight on the way home from rehearsal, I first uttered a few choice words to the gentleman, then teared up and thought pitiful thoughts about how I’m such a Pokey Pony. That’s when I knew I needed to blog about it so that I would stop taking myself so goddamn seriously.