We got stuck in traffic. A word to the wise: never schedule your first driving lesson to coincide with rush hour in New York City.

Jay turned to me. “Why don’t you drive?” It was more of a command than a request. Before I could respond, he had hopped out of the car and run around to the passenger side. Talk about “baptism by fire.” I climbed over to the driver’s seat and buckled up.

There was no introductory lesson—not even a five-minute demonstration on how to make the hunk of metal stop and go. The only words of wisdom shared by my dear driving instructor were that if he at any point yelled, “Hands off!” I had to remove my hands from the wheel and let him take control. Those instructions were somehow less than reassuring.

The traffic started to move. Oh God.

I relied on skills acquired during my previous driving experiences, which consisted of the few times my dad let me drive around the block and childhood escapades in the bumper car rink.

“You’re an aggressive driver,” Jay said. Go figure.

I slowed down and attempted to be more cautious, only to be chastised a few minutes later for driving too slowly.

“But I was trying to get in touch with my ‘passive driver’ side,” I quip.