When I was sixteen, I started learning how to drive. My parents owned, at the time, both a Toyota Camry and a Chevrolet Truck, with an extended bed nonetheless. I was always under the impression that I would be learning to drive behind the wheel of the Toyota, but to my surprise, my mom drove me to the high school parking lot, in the truck, and told me to get in the driver's seat. For several weeks I resented my mom every time I had to drive this obnoxious carriage of embarrassment around town. Every time I had to drive to a school event or a friends house I prayed I would be able to take the car, which didn't make me look as redneck and masculine. At some points, I simply refused to drive "the beast" and made my parents drop me off as far as possible to avoid possible questions or harassment.
What I didn't realize was that no one but me actually thought twice about what vehicle I was driving. A lot of my friends, once I got my license, actually enjoyed riding in the truck, they said it felt powerful. I started to realize how fun it was surprising other drivers on the road, especially boys also driving trucks. I started to "race" other drivers on my way to work, don't try that at home, and looked over to see the expression on their faces when I passed them and they realized that the driver was a five foot three teenage girl. I came to the conclusion that driving a truck was, to me, a sign of bravery and of skill, considering how large the truck was, it was no small feat to drive it through the narrow streets of my town. So many of my coworkers were stunned when I pulled into the parking lot of my work in my chevy and I laughed at their surprise and astonishment.
Being five foot three and eighteen years old, you'll take any ego boosts you can get, and driving my truck has been one of the biggest ones. I jump at the chance to drive the chevy and welcome all the stunned glances as I race, under the speed limit of course, down the road.