I stepped into the Lyft car and paused mid-air, hovering above the grey upholstered backseat. I had one foot in, one foot out. My driver was a man, well past his golden years. An internal debate struck up, making a legitimate point: Is it safe to ride with this old dude? Or, should I cancel and find a new driver?
I was already late to ballet class—if I got another driver, there was no way I would make it on time. The heavy February drizzle slid off my hood, dampening the interior of the car. It smelled like wet carpet and Old Spice. For some reason, that comforting combo ended the internal debate and I decided to ride with the old dude.
A few awkward wet boot squeaks later, followed by the slam of the door, my ass was parked in the car. “Hu…hi,” I managed to say finally. “I’m Britt.”
He smiled at me in the rearview mirror, with twinkling mischievous blue eyes that very much reminded me of my dad. “Hi, Britt. I’m 87 years old.”