There are very few things I feel I can’t do in this life.
In fact, I can list on one hand the things I cannot, will not, shall not do.
- Attempt high jump (again).
- Eat olives.
- Watch Home and Away.
- Strip down on a nude beach.
- Drive a car.
Unsurprisingly, stating my dislike for the above only ever serves to inflame the fans.
“Oh, but high jump is so easy!” they say, “All you need to do is just look over the bar, run up, and jump!” Yeahhhhh… nah. Last time I attempted high jump, I was nine years old. I trotted up to the bar, looked up at it gingerly, and shook my head. Nope.
And so it goes. Those who love olives, preach how delicious they are and how I will learn to love the flavour of them. Fans of Home and Away assure me it’s just a matter of time before I get hooked. And don’t even get me STARTED on nudists.
But perhaps the most emphatic of the bunch are the drivers.
Drivers. Love. Driving.
“What do you mean you don’t drive!” they gasp, incredulous, like I had just told them I was born with seventeen thumbs.
“Like….how do you get around? How do you go on road trips? How do you…how do you go through McDonald’s drive-thru?!”
It’s usually at this point that their face clouds over, a slow dawning of horror as they realise I am one of ‘those people’. A leech, a parasite on the underbelly of their Toyota Corolla, a “can I offer you petrol money?”, radio-adjusting, car-park-spotting, blissfully ignorant, NON-DRIVER.
That’s when I often choose to sigh, walk away, and make a mental note to never ask them for a ride to work ever again.