In 1998, when I left Manhattan for suburban South Florida, I hadn't owned a car for 11 years. Didn't want one. Didn't need one. I had the subways and the buses, my own two feet and eventually, a boyfriend turned husband who had a beat-up Hyundai.
If you and I were out to dinner, and I repeatedly kicked you under the table with my clunky hard wedges, what would you think I was doing?