...wanderlust

When I admit that I’m lost, it’s no big surprise to anyone. For me, lost is a permanent condition—more than just a directional disability. I give up and ask directions only after I’ve explored all other alternatives and circumnavigated the lengths and breadth of the twilight zone.

Directions don’t help because I’m still wandering about searching for the reference points from my latest rescuer who thought he could use a GPS (Guy’s Play Stuff) locator—the newest high-tech gadget for location. “At latitude 68, longitude 54, turn magnetic North and drive to mile marker 357. Then turn West and drive 6.258 kilometers northeast.”

I see how it may be invaluable during a game of international hide and seek., but for big city driving, it’s a failure. It does nothing to alleviate the real problem which, as close as I can tell, is the fact that the earth itself is tilted.

I’ve considered implants—of the directional variety. If anyone ever needed a permanent locator it would be me… not to locate myself—I also suffer from THHD, (Technologically helpless, hopeless disorder,)—but to help someone else locate me and decipher my ramblings.

The cell phone thingy helps. Today when I got lost, I called for directions. It still took an hour for somebody to figure out where I was, but I have the “stay connected to friends and family plan,” thank goodness.

Reality Bite: Size doesn’t matter. Today’s landmark was a 90-foot radio tower off to the side of the road and I still missed it.