I'm 25 years old, and I just started taking driving lessons. I live in a city built entirely around cars, and not having one requires explanation as to why I posses neither. I'm asked frequently: "You're 25 with no license?" It's hard not to turn it into a pitiful conclusion of my own inadequacy, whirling thoughts of I'm late! I'm late! I'm late! Feeling behind has always been the most isolating experience for me. It's not the thought I hate but the harrowing conviction that I somehow lost a memo that the rest of the world got.1 Naturally, I felt...