According to Wikipedia, 80 percent of Americans claim to be above-average drivers (Psssst! It’s funny, because at least 30 percent of them are automatically wrong).
I’m not one of those people. If I could give up driving forever, I’d do it in a heartbeat (please don’t suggest that I bike everywhere).
I had my first car accident at 15, as a hopeful driver with a modest learner’s permit. The time was 6:50 in the morning. I was on my way to an early-bird Catholic Morality Class (more on the many joys and quirks of being raised Catholic are forthcoming). My sleepy papa sat in the passenger seat next to me. I scanned the street: no parked cars. It was then I decided to impress Sid Shoemaker with my mad backing-up skills. And I did! Impress upon him that he was mad to let me get into a piece of steel that can back-up. I smacked right into our neighbors mailbox on that telling weekday morning. A mailbox that was apparently built with diamonds and industrial-grade concrete: they took my father to small claims court and tried to squeeze 2000 dollars out of us.