Stick to it.

This is embarrassing: I don't know how to drive a stick.

I'm not really sure how this happened, having grown up on a ranch where you couldn't throw a fresh egg without hitting a manual transmission. I just remember wanting to avoid being taught by my dad.

Dad's a great fellow with incredible patience that didn't always carry over to us kids. Once, when I was driving (an automatic) with my learner's permit, he shouted my name from the passenger seat as I was merging onto the highway. It scared the crap out of me, and he shook his head with disgust, but to this day I have no idea what didn't happen, since he didn't explain what he was trying to prevent by not yelling any instructions as to what to do with the vehicle. What I did learn was that I didn't want to drive with Dad anymore.

Also, I knew that lurching and stalling would provide ample opportunities to be made fun of, and I was not interested.

So, somehow, I slipped under the stick radar, managing to volunteer to drive the automatics when we were out on one chore or another. Then I got busy with school, then I left for college, and now I'm darn near grown up -- over the years I spent less and less time at home, which translated into fewer and fewer opportunities for anyone to realize I didn't know how to drive a stick shift.

Fast forward to Panama, where we recently became the part owners of a manual Ford Ranger.

Somehow, my inabilities didn't go into hiding as easily here, as before I even knew we had the pickup people were expressing their surprise at what I don't know how to do.

As much as I'd just like to avoid driving, it probably won't be possible here, so Brent gave me my first lesson in the parking lot. Afterward, he kept telling me what a great job I did. He's a really great boyfriend.