I let my driver’s license expire.
There, I said it. As online confessions go, it might sound pretty tame, but in terms of what it reveals about my character it’s more shameful than admitting I’m a Brony. What kind of grown man can’t legally drive? Even more humiliating, what kind of grown man from Texas can’t legally drive?
When I moved to New York from Dallas there was no question that I wouldn’t be bringing my car. I spent my first year stealing nickels and dimes from my roommate’s change bowl to pay for $2 ham & cheese sandwiches from the world’s most threadbare bodega; at $400/month for parking, he might have noticed the missing silver.
But not having a car and not having a license are very different things. It’s not like I moved here and thought, “Oh, I can just let this expire, because New York City!” I simply quit devoting attention to anything that didn’t immediately contribute to my survival, and next thing you know I’ve got no more right to get behind the wheel than your typical One Direction fan.