WHICH WAY IS UP?
Ok, I have a confession to make.
Even though I like to think most of the time I’ve got it all together and I know exactly what I’m doing, there is a characteristic of my personality that will shatter any presumption of competence I am trying to project.
I am directionally challenged. Before Yahoo Maps I was severely disabled, bordering on blithering idiot.
I can get lost in a paper bag. Actually, I can't find my way OUT of a paper bag. I don’t know which way is up. I think up is North, South is down. That’s about it for me, folks. Show me the way to go home, I’m tired and I want to go to bed. I had a little drink about an hour ago, and its gone straight to my head. I think that could be my theme song, except I’m that way even when I don’t drink. Maybe "On the Road Again" is more on target. I always travel with a toothbrush in my purse, just in case.
I know that when I get on Route 390 after visiting an unfamiliar place and I have to find my way back home, the only guideline I have is a little voice inside my head, telling me to “head for the water.” Forget heading for the light, if I head for the water, then I know I’m heading north and will be home soon. Like a month to a flame. Yup, that's me.
Except if I want to go West. Then I know I have to head to Buffalo and Niagara Falls. My destination may be Batavia, but I get off at Buffalo. Which, yes, I NOW know is past Batavia.
East is Albany and south is NYC. Asking directions is futile. I also can’t calculate mileage. If someone tells me to “….go 2/3 of a mile to the next light and go 4/10 of a mile to the third stop sign” I would probably end up in Pittsburgh.
That’s about it for my traveling expertise. Someone once asked me how many times a day did I make a U-turn? I told him three times, but the truth was really seven! How about backing up, does that count?
I used to tell the kids that we were "on an adventure" whenever I was about 50 miles off from our intended destination. That explanation worked until the oldest was about ten years old and finally figured it out. He had just about enough of the current adventure. “We’re lost again, ain’t we, Mom?” “No, we’re not lost” I would answer, nonchalantly “I meant to take a look at the beach.” “In December?” he would smirk. “Yes, they have special Christmas trees out this way, I believe.” We spent another half hour looking for Christmas palm trees. There used to be screams of terror if I had to take them anywhere, and they needed to be there soon, like, within two hours.
It isn’t for lack of trying either. I have long suffered with this hideous affliction. When I was a teenager, my Dad used to have what he would call map reading classes. He would take a NY State road map, lay it on the living room floor, where my sisters and I would lay face down on our stomachs on top of the map. Hence, North is Up. He would tell us to find a certain town, and then look in the key, find the designation by the top of the map (a letter) and the side (a number). Bringing two fingers together at the apex should be where the town was. Bingo! Easy, right? Except you couldn't do the apex thing with your fingers and still handle the steering wheel.
I would always pass the map class tests with flying colors. It’s when I got in the car that I got into trouble. Although I was pretty safe when heading into Manhattan, because the Long Island Expressway was more or less straightforward. You didn’t need to get off until Brooklyn. Going to the beach at Southampton (before it was trendy) was easy too. It was just the other way. Somehow I thought all towns were laid out that way, just North and South. Up and Down.
Moving to Rochester and the Can of Worms was an exercise in stress management. For my husband. I kept looking for the connector lane, similar to the LIE. Trouble was, the connector lane on Route 390 was Route 490. I can’t tell you how many times I ended up in Leroy, when all I wanted to do was go to Wegmans. I was so relieved when they finally realigned the routes. I still had Route 590 to deal with, but that’s another story. I have absolutely no sense of direction. Instead I go by landmarks.
I’m big on landmarks. I look for barns that I bought an antique from on the right of me when traveling the countryside. Taverns I frequented on the left when visiting a Great Lake in the Fall to pick up a grape pie. Heaven help me if someone cuts down a tree that I used as a marker to head towards Dansville. I was a goner when they moved the Giant Indian from in front of the Nursery in Rush to somewhere near Elmira.
Sometimes I think I should have been born a man. At least no one expects them to ask for directions.
So keep the light on for me, I'll get there. Eventually
