Losing It

“Everyone has a unique gift or talent.”  How many times have you read or heard this phrase?  And have you ever found your ‘talent’, your heart’s desire?

People tell me that I am a writer at heart.  I don’t know about that; if you write a blog and no one reads it, does a tree still fall in the forest – or some such mixed metaphor?  Does it even matter that anyone reads your written musings if it provides you a measure of self-satisfaction? 

I do know that ever since I was a little kid I’ve been in love with the written word.  Yup, I’m the fat girl who spent many a night with a book and a flashlight (and a tray of Oreos, let’s be honest), under the covers, transported away to a kingdom, the Deep South, the Ritz Carlton hotel, or the furthest planetary reaches of the writer’s imagination – and mine. 

Even to this day, words and phrases and pithy thoughts swirl through my brain in constructs of written pattern All. The. Time. I’d have a hell of a Twitter account if only my thumbs weren’t so short.  By the time I type/text my thoughts, I’ve forgotten what I wanted to say before I’m finished.  Swipe texting is no help when you have sausages for fingers.  And forget that whole voice recognition text feature.  I’m more likely to end up with Chinese takeout than an actual social media post that makes any sense.  So, it’s the pen for me, or more accurately, a full size QWERTY keyboard.

OK, I do consider writing, especially self-deprecating snark to be my gift.

Well, according to my hubby, and some guy named Newton, “for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”  And while I’m quite sure Newton meant Physics or Math or something else completely incomprehensible to the average human, I take his ‘law’ to mean this: “for every talent, there is an equal and opposite lack of a talent, the anti-gift”. 

My ‘anti-gift’?  I have no sense of direction. Truth be told, I get lost on a regular basis, even walking.  Go ahead.  Chuckle.  Scratch your head.  Utter a bemused ‘hunh?’.  The fact is once I leave the safe confines of my driveway or my office, all bets are off.  I have tried and true carefully plotted, never varied from, repeatedly used routes to places I need to go.  To quote Helen 'Mama' Boucher from the movie The Waterboy, detours are ‘the devil’. 

My Dad used to say that I could get lost walking out of an open ended paper bag.  And that I’d probably be crying.

Upon learning of my anti-gift, a co-worker commented in amazement, “But you’re so smart!?!”  Brains ain’t got nuthin’ to do with it, trust me.  I have a kid who tested in the genius range at a young age but couldn’t tie their shoes; that is until they grew out of Velcro tab tennis shoes in the fifth grade and were forced to spend the summer learning the art of tying.  Said kid went on to graduate summa cum laude with a triple major from Ball State. 

So, being directionally challenged does not equal stupid.  Just sayin’.

Family legend is that I got lost on the day of my wedding, and ended up at a different church where I met and married hubby.  This is of course not true, but in the usual “God’s sense of humor” way, one of hubby’s greatest gifts is that he has an amazing sense of direction, damn him.  You could drop that man into any place on earth, and I mean any place, and he will always find his way to where ever he needs or wants to go.  Cities.  Forests.  Corn Mazes.  Mall parking lots.  I can count on one hand the number of times in 29 years of marriage that he was, in his words, not lost, just sort of momentarily confused (the man knows not to use the word lost with me in the car). 

When navigating a new place he used to launch into some “in-my-previous-life-Indian-guide” spiel about “the sun’s rays and the drying dew and East/West weather patterns and how he knew that meant we should go that-a-way” in a misguided attempt to, um, ‘help’ me understand the art of direction.  Let’s just say he stopped that crap after a few well timed glares, pursed lips, eye rolls, and white-knuckle-grasp-of-the-door-handle-tears that clearly said “thank you, I don’t need an explanation.  Please proceed to our destination”. 

Actually that body language read “shut the hell up and drive me back to home/hotel for a martini”.  But I digress.

So, thankfully my kids don’t share my anti-gift.  A week spent in London, England on a Make-A-Wish trip meant time traversing the London Underground subway, affectionately call the Tubes.  On the first day, after spending no more than 10 seconds glancing at a map that resembled multicolored spaghetti, the family instantly knew what colored lines would get us where, including navigating around closed ‘under construction’ lines (remember detours=devil), and they were left drawing straws as to who would keep track of mom.  Forget site seeing, I spent most of that trip staring at my eldest son’s back as he led me around the city. 

I think the panicky fear of getting lost should be a true and recognized psychiatric phobia, like ‘lostaphobia’ or ‘wandereraphobia’.  Some Google sites say “Mazephobia” is the correct term, but that’s not real either.  Well, hello doc, if you’re ever riding shotgun with me and I’m on the verge of wandering off course, you’ll soon find out that my bat-crap-crazy, steering wheel clutching, cursing up a blue streak state of panicked phobia is very real, lemme tell you.

So, yes, I always kept change with me because I would invariably have to use a payphone when I got really lost.  For you youngsters who don’t know what a payphone is, here’s a picture of one – and no, I never met Clark Kent. Superman.  Never mind.

OK, hubby rejoiced when cell phones were invented.  Just call me for directions, he said.  I’ll help you out, he said.  No problem, he promised.

Well, a couple of missed calls combined with hysterical voice-mails divided by some ‘how in God’s name did you end up there’ questions multiplied by a traitorous ‘mom got us really lost today, Dad’ stab in the back by the youngest kid (and I even bribed him with ice cream) equaled a newfangled GPS, a Garmin I named Carmen. 

Hubby selected the Garmin’s voice mode and surprise, surprise, it couldn't be changed; this silky chick would practically purr to hubby when he was in the car.  “Good morning, sweetie; where are we going today?”

Her voice took a decidedly bitchier tone when it was just her and me in the car.  If I had a nickel for every time she shrieked “RECALCULATING!” or “Make a U-turn NOW!” I could have paid someone to drive me.  She eventually stopped talking altogether, probably out of spite or exhaustion.  I’m not sure, but I think hubby has her tucked away somewhere in his nightstand, and plugs her in when he’s feeling, you know, lonely. 

So, today I ride shotgun with a new Tom-Tom, a lovely man with a British accent that I named Phillip – and yes, I selected the voice mode.  I rawther imagine he looks a bit like Colin Firth.  OK, a lot like Colin Firth.  Think Mr. Darcy of Pride and Prejudice.  Hmmm, suddenly I’m not minding being lost quite as much…