Published Tuesday, August 05, 2008 3:24 PM
Updated Tuesday, August 05, 2008 3:25 PM
We do, but that's not why he herds me around like an errant goat. He does it because I can’t find my way out of a cabbage patch.
Once I entered my bank by the back door, then couldn’t retrace my steps. I circled the lobby forlornly until a teller steered me out.
Convenience stores are worse: Did I turn left at the beer or right at the boiled peanuts?
More recently, I went to visit a friend in Salisbury, N.C. Apparently I went into a fugue state on I-85, and wound up in Spartanburg. Or was it Smoaks?
I’ve been like this since childhood. Once when my cool Uncle Dave was visiting, I asked him to take me to a park to play with friends.
“Sure,” he said, and we climbed in his Volkswagen bus.
”Where is it?” he asked.
“Um, down the road a ways,” I said. He shrugged, and started driving. I opened my new Nancy Drew book.
Forty minutes later Uncle Dave stopped on the shoulder of the road and said calmly, “We’re in another county now.” (After two tours in Viet Nam, Uncle Dave didn’t get worked up about a whole lot.)
“ Sorry,” I whispered.
“Are you sure you’ve been to this park before?” he asked.
”Every week for six years,” I admitted.
Years later, even Map Quest and Map Blast didn’t help much. Steering with one hand and clutching the printout in the other, I missed many exits. In desperation, I’d memorize the directions and repeat them at the top of my lungs driving down the highway. By the time I arrived, I was hoarse and sweating bullets.
When Widdle and I married, I moved to his house. It’s a straight shot down Highway 17-A, no turns, no exits, no problem, right? I got lost at least once a week.
But Widdle, as always, came to the rescue. He gave me a Global Positioning Satellite system for Christmas.
It’s a miracle! You enter your destination and a detailed, moving map appears. Even better, a woman’s cool, upper-crust voice – we call her the Queen – directs your every move, as in, “Go 1.2 miles and turn left at the landfill.”
I’m thrilled with this new technology. Now I can drive without fear. It’s like having a soothing, sensible co-pilot.
There’s just one little catch: The Queen does not like to be disobeyed.
Last week I was driving to a destination in Berkeley County. I obeyed Her Highness slavishly, merging here and yielding there. Then we came to a roadwork detour the Queen didn’t know about.
It was just two blocks, go straight through the orange barrels, no big deal.
“In 100 feet, turn left on Simmons Road,” the Queen commanded. I ignored her and followed the detour signs.
Her tone became icy. “In 30 feet, turn left on Simmons Road.”
I stayed straight. As I passed Simmons Road she screamed, “Turn left, turn left, turn left, you dolt!”
Okay, she didn’t call me a dolt. But she did sulk all the way home.
Julie R. Smith, who got lost writing this, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.