Give me non-vehicular transportation, or give me death.

Last week, my father and I went for a drive down a deserted country road. The scenery was so picturesque that our excursion would have made an exceptional opening sequence to a wholesome family movie. Imagine: the camera slowly focuses on a sea of corn rippling off into the horizon, complemented by an artfully arranged sunset peeking out from between the stalks. Cut to a shot of the parental unit inside the car. He's having a blast taking pictures of the landscape with his phone and excitedly gesturing at the scene outside. Then the camera pans to his daughter.

The strength of her grip on the steering wheel is akin to a boa constrictor's stranglehold on its prey. Her hands are clammy and white, but she's too busy staring straight ahead at the road to notice. Her eyes are glazed and feverish as they search for other cars. She thinks she hears a familiar voice, Hey, relax, you're doing fine, but she's forgetting to breathe and the lack of oxygen is making her dizzy. Sweat drips down her back, and...is that dribble running down her chin? Are those tears at the corners of her eyes? She doesn't care, though, because the adrenaline-oxygen deprivation combo is causing hallucinations. Dancing elephants and flashing lights flood her vision. At this point, she lets go of the wheel to embrace the light at the end of the tunnel. She says silent goodbyes to her loved ones.

Okay, I'm exaggerating. I'm not that terrified of driving, but I do have a confession to make: I don't want a driver's license [scandalized gasps commence in the distance]. I've had my permit for year, and I have only driven ten hours out of the mandatory fifty.

Before you judge me, let me describe the world's vehicular way of life as I see it. Drivers are strapped into metal death machines. They then choose to hurtle down roads in these metal death machines, inches away from other hurtling metal death machines, for the sake of transportation, even though biking or walking could accomplish the same goal.

I'm not saying I'm afraid of riding in cars, I'm saying that I'm afraid of controlling one. In my mind, a parent offering me car keys is analogous to Barack Obama handing me a big red button that activates his cache of atomic warheads. I can't handle the responsibility.

I still feel like a five year old, just beginning to puzzle out Barbie as Rapunzel in the backseat of my mother's minivan, incapable of captaining my own vessel. On top of my mental age, I'm currently in the midst of juggling college applications, school, standardized testing, extracurricular activities, and sanity. I don't feel in control of my own life. How could I possibly take control of a car, on a road, where anything could happen?

Yet, before my collegiate career begins, I need to have my license. I know that I will have to overcome my insecurities, that I need to take the wheel. It's hard to take my life, my transportation, into my own hands—it'd be so much easier to bike or walk—but I now realize that getting my license signifies more to me than my ability to drive independently. Once I get my license, I'll know that I trust myself.

Until then, I'll find inspiration in the concluding sentence of William Ernest Henley's "Invictus," and I will use it as a motivational mantra. It reads: "Once I am the master of my car, I am the captain of my soul"—or something along those lines.