Back Behind the Wheel

I was born with a lazy eye. It’s the left one if you want to direct your derision at its lethargy appropriately.

“Lazy eye” is officially called amblyopia and afflicts approximately 1-2% of humanity, including celebrities known for their beauty such as Ryan Gosling and Heidi Klum, alongside unfamous people not known for their beauty, like me. Amblyopia can typically be corrected if discovered in small children, which mine was not, meaning that I have been legally blind in my left eye my entire life. If you are curious, it has peripheral vision, but a member of the alphabet would need to be the size of a linebacker for accurate identification.

Not searching for sympathy here: Since it’s a lifelong condition, I only know my way of seeing the world and have gotten along just fine. I was known as a decent outside shooter on the basketball court. I could tell that my wife is really pretty right away. I even once found Waldo. And I had no problem securing driver’s licenses in Arkansas, Mississippi, California, Tennessee, and Illinois—until I moved back to California, that is.

It turns out that the California DMV modified its vision standards since I moved away, and when I visited early last week, I was told to visit an optometrist. (Side note: Driving home after said eye exam through a winding canyon while squinting through a dilated working eye led to some reflection on what I assume was the motivation behind the new standard. But I digress.) Afterward, a return trip to the DMV with the completed form led to the discovery that I had to take a behind-the-wheel driving test for the first time since the mid-1980s. Which happened yesterday.

Let’s begin by saying that, yes, I think I had all the nerves of the teenagers taking the test with me, maybe more. If you fail the test as a teenager, I assume your parents offer comfort and a stop for cheeseburgers. I, on the other hand, might have to sell my car immediately and Uber home.

Well, the time came, and my driving critic was a young man that looked suspiciously like Sal from Impractical Jokers, which did make me wonder about the entire ordeal. It also occurred to me that I was probably teaching people to drive before he was old enough to learn, but since I was actively engaged in combat with militant butterflies, I just focused on the driving.

Me and Sal (not his real name) rode in silence, and I tried to remember all the things: hands at eight and four; constant looking over your shoulder like a bobblehead; using turn signals months before you actually turn; driving faster than the joggers but slower than everyone else; and so on. If you perform what is known as a critical error, you instantly fail; if not, you must have under twenty points to pass. I am pleased to report no critical errors and just five points marked, so I made it. I celebrated by taking my own self to In-N-Out for a cheeseburger.

I am the most defensive driver I know, and believe me I felt a little defensive when required to take a behind-the-wheel test. I guess I could hate on California, or the DMV, or government bureaucracy in general. And, well, yes, and sure. Or I guess I could look for a silver lining like learning something new (very little) or fun conversations with new people (didn’t happen). Instead, I guess that sometimes, when life seems unfair, the only thing you get out of it is some real-life practice in endurance and patience.

I suspect you are facing something much more unfair and challenging, or will. If so, hang in there, do your best, and know that I am rooting for you to pass, too. And when you do, I suggest treating yourself to a double-double combo (protein-style) like I did.