I hate to drive. This may sound disgraceful in a society that revels in empowered women, but it’s true. I hate to drive.

Automobiles exist in my life to get me from point A to point B. I like that they’re air-conditioned and in the wintertime I dig heated seats.

We have satellite radio which is nice on extended trips (with Rupert driving). A game we play is competing to identify songs on an oldies station, which spells out the title and artist on a digital screen on the console. We each guess and then press the button to reveal the song’s name. (I’m especially good at music from 1972-73, my senior year in high school.)

Other than those amenities, automobile accessories don’t really turn my head.

Don’t put me in a vehicle that has manual transmission. I once burned out three clutches. Never got the hang of it.

I don’t like to drive when I have passengers. Which is a shame, because I drive a minivan that seats seven. I’m long past being a soccer mom, but our van is nice when we’re joined by our parents. Rupert had Barney Pickett make him an authentic railroad conductor’s wooden stool, which we keep in the back of the van, ready to place on the pavement beside the sliding door so our passengers can board more easily.

My dislike of being the designated driver stems from my one-track mind. I can’t concentrate on driving and talking to my passengers at the same time. So if you’re riding with me, don’t be offended if I don’t converse. Just listen to the oldies on the radio until we get where we’re going.

Now that DeSoto County has become a shopping destination, I will drive no further north than Southaven. Memphis traffic defeated me long ago. It’s the merging. I’m such a timid driver that I don’t want to pull out until there is absolutely nobody coming up behind me. When’s the last time that happened on I-240?

Actually, I am a safe, seat-belt-wearing driver with a pretty good record: I caused one minor fender bender on a rain-slick Highway 51 in 1978, and I have had one speeding ticket. A merciful state trooper two weeks ago kept my record intact.

On those extended trips I mentioned, I can be coerced into giving Rupert a nap break. I will drive along straight stretches of interstate when there’s no need to merge.

Rupert tells me to keep my vehicle within an imaginary bubble, not too close to the car in front of me, and a safe distance ahead of the one behind me.

Well, last week the bubble burst.

We were on our way to Memphis — car-shopping, of all things. Of course, I wasn’t driving. My son, the Navy guy, was in the pilot’s seat. He had selected a car from a Memphis dealer and we were going to get it.

We came to this 12-way stop on Getwell. We stopped. The other driver did not.

Our minivan needs a new bumper. The other driver’s dad needs a new car. Nobody was hurt. A police report was filed and we proceeded on to conduct Thomas’s business.

He got a nice (“pre-owned,” as they say) car in which he left on Sunday headed to Groton, Connecticut, his new duty station.

I am so happy not to have passed on to him my phobia about driving.

He is fearless.

He called me Monday afternoon from Connecticut, after having driven through New York City during rush hour.

I’m so proud.