That is the question that my driving instructor asked me last week. I was all set to have lessons to finally, finally (and hopefully) pass my practical test in a different part of the country but, ultimately, I had to go for someone local.
I like my driving instructor. He is calm. He is collected. He is, I realise (and I told him), someone I have to trust. 100%. I have enormous respect for my driving instructor. And he is, by far, the best one - and yes, there have been many. Each instructor seemed to have their own tragic lifestory and it did seem to affect our driving lessons. Maybe it was those boundaries again? I'm a very good listener. Anyway, my instructor is very happy and settled and we talk about big issues and silly things.
During my third lesson, he asked me THAT question. Straight out. "Do you have an inferiority complex?" We talked about it - as I was negotiating various junctions and minor roads. I asked him what HE really meant by the question, as well as my interpretation of it. In short, I will automatically assume I have done something wrong. And apologise profusely. Or, I will comment on holding up the traffic. And feel bad about the other drivers.
Driving has not come naturally to me. I didn't learn at 17. In fact, I didn't start until I was at university. And from my very first lesson, I never really saw the point of gears. I know that sounds utterly insane but I distinctly remember travelling down a small road and my instructor of the time told me to move up in the gears. For such a short space of time, it seemed like a wasted effort. I am sure this is heresy for those of you who love to drive. Anyway, I have two failed manual tests under my belt and far too many lessons to count. And I never seemed to make progress. I really didn't. There never seemed enough lessons to get me test-ready again (after the two failures). In London, it didn't matter. But out of London, it affects everything, including my employability. Massively.
So, here I am, going for third time lucky. Only this time I am trying in an automatic. My best friend, Porkchop, was the same. When we finally discussed my new lessons, I said it was such a joy to stop at and move off from traffic lights. It's soooooo much easier. "Yes," she said, "you can concentrate on the driving." Exactly.
So what has this got to do with weight loss? Well, something and nothing. For a start, there are certain situations (joining a dual carriageway, for example) that feel scary. I don't know what I am doing but I trust my instructor to get me through. Sometimes, I've noticed, I hear what he says but my brain doesn't translate those words into actions. Sounds familiar?
When I lost a lot of weight in 2007, I certainly didn't know what I was doing. It felt alien and scary, particularly as the weight was dropping at a fairly swift rate. But all I had to do was follow the diet to the letter. If I deviated, the weight loss was affected. When I approach roundabouts on the road, it's the same thing. I'm driving the car but I'm not in control. My instructor is telling me what to do.
Control (being in control and feeling in control) is critical in driving. You are in charge of the car NOT the other way round. And that has everything to do with weight loss. It really does. We are all in charge of ourselves but goodness me, isn't it easy to forget? Isn't it easier to believe that we are controlled by the food - OUT THERE?
I'm absolutely desperate to pass my test, in the same way that I wanted to lose weight back in 2007 (and still do only this time I have the experience of having been - at one point - seven stones lighter). I didn't believe I could do it and I think it was the same for driving (a manual car).
But driving, like dieting, is a learned skill. I see that. And sometimes, particularly when my self-sabotage is operating at maximum, I feel incredibly stupid. Why can't I just get my act together around food? Ditto with manoeuvres. Why can't I reverse? Why can sooooo many OTHER people manage? After all, I usually say, I don't think I am particularly stupid.
My instructor told me about his super-bright students. Doctors from the local hospitals. Academics from various reputable institutions nearby. Incredibly intelligent and able people, stars in their chosen profession, yet utterly undone by a particular roundabout or junction. I think he was trying to say that I was not alone.
I said to my instuctor, "I really, really want to be a driver. And a mother." (He'd asked me on my first lesson whether I had any children.)
"You are a driver," he said.
"OK, I want to be a qualified driver. And a mother."
That's what I really want.
Recent Comments