…pretzel loop

Speaking of lost… Great segue, no? Most of the challenges I face in life are self-inflicted, like my driving.

I’m lost again and isn’t my fault… entirely. I drive back and forth; round and round and I’m surprised when I find myself back at the same place.

I don’t mind asking for directions, but I think I must have a tattoo on my forehead that glows when I’m lost that says, “Go ahead—confuse me more!” I wonder if it blares that I am left brained, or right brained, or perhaps no brained whatsoever.

Remember the rest stop in that dumber than dumb movie where the two guys get turned around?[1] It’s in Kansas, I know because I’ve been there and I’ve done it! In the middle of a twenty-four hour road trip, I got off and got back on, headed in the opposite direction.

Reality Bite: Oblivion is a great place to visit, but try not to live there.

[1] I’m not in the mood to pay for rights to remember the correct title here.

...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.

…familial compass

When I’m driving with the family and I begin to show inklings of rambling, my on-board support team surges into action. The oldest child yells, “Everybody quiet!” while the next one chimes in, “Lost, again, Mom?” One salvages a map from the depths of the fetid floor coverings, while another calls in the cavalry (their father) who is mobilized online electronically for just this eventuality.

When short errands turn into lengthy voyages, the little one revises his original complaint of, “Are we there yet?” to wonder, “Are we lost… yet?”

To Me,
From this day forth, I’m going to be proactive and recommend that all directions include not only, “You know you are on the right road if…” but also, “...and I'll know I’m in the wrong place when …” It works. T.

...futility exercises

Sometimes when I’m lost, and I need some reassurance, I like to pull into a parking lot and watch people amble by, looking for their cars. Somehow this exercise becomes my symbol of companionship—a sort of impromptu support group—that builds my confidence and reassures me that here, I fit in perfectly.

To me: I’m desperately seeking the support structure that was my foundation. Crumbling in Okefenokee, Okmulgee, or Ogalala, where ever I am OK, Terina

I watch these fellow seekers as their confident stride falters, slowing to a hesitant shuffle and all the while, the head turns like a broken compass bobbing back and forth seeking magnetic north. [1]

As the scene plays out, I use their success or failure as portend of my fate—a magic ball to foretell the end of my trip. Either I will have eventual success or I should stop right now and go home. It’s nice to have some small hand in my own destiny. With their outcome, either heartened or disillusioned, I drive off into my day.

Reality Bite: Ha! I’m not the only one. When my friend goes to the restroom in a restaurant, her family knows to retrieve her from her kitchen inspection, and redirect her back to the table.

[1] All of life's problems stem from disregarding magnetic north, (except for those directly related to the breaking of the universal clean-underwear rule.)

…crusin’

Being lost isn’t all bad, sometimes it takes me to places that I could never imagine—to beauty unparalleled. I see firsthand scenery that would flash by virtually unnoticed if I were in a hurry.

I’ve decided that one can be mad and lost or one can choose to be happy and lost. It’s all about one’s attitude and not at all, ever, about being totally oblivious.

I am going to change my attitude and enjoy the view as I pass it—again going the wrong direction—repeatedly, for the fifth time.

Dear Sis,
Sorry about the extra mileage. Tell your husband that while he blissfully slept in the backseat, I really enjoyed the four hours of uninterrupted talk time with my sister.
It wasn’t really my intent to disrupt his dreams of Yellowstone Park with the reality of waking up in Montana. I don’t remember turning left instead of the right, but if was fun to meet that nice man at that last-chance bar and grill. He gassed us up and redirected us down that dirt road and then we made great time. Give your aghast one hugs for me, Terina

Upon first appearance, the road of life doesn’t appear too complicated (and certainly not as convoluted as I’ve been accused of making it.) Life can be compared to an enjoyable jaunt across the country. One expects on such a lengthy journey that there may be minor stops and starts, but I’m working to get from here to there while enjoying myself. If that is my destination, I’m just going to have to accept life's little detours.

Reality bite: That and the little bobble head glued to the front dash are the essentials in life.

…loopy

To me,

Life’s problems are like a Moebius loop—spiraling around and around, unending. Whee, T.

I adapt to all the little twists and curves of kismet, fate, luck, doom, karma, (whatever it is that each of us tend to title life’s little ups and downs) by talking and writing about these calamities. Therapists call it active participatory therapy, I call it venting.

I use this therapy to identify problems and then I write to defuse these stressors. It’s about then that I realize that writing is the stressor.

Writing should help me loop through the conundrums of life and garner solutions, but it’s become an endless cycle. I sort through past years of garbled vicissitudes[1] and discover that my life requires constant clarification and urgent revision!

So I write more! It is then that I realize that this idea of writing therapy is not new; it’s been around for centuries. I expect it to work about as well for me as it worked for Poe.[2]

Reality Bite: “All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.”[3]

I plan to continue to twist and record my adventures until I either confuse or convince myself to do otherwise. I’ll shoot along this track pell-mell, encouraged by the idea that I’m making some therapeutic headway.

In lieu of that, I fully expect that my writing will explain my eccentricities to my progeny. I can picture them now. “Remember how Grandma got lost every time she ventured beyond her back yard?” Well, now they will have my response in perpetuity.

Reality Bite: Don’t explore anything too deeply, it’s not safe.

[1] Abrupt or unexpected changes or shifts often met with in one’s life, activities or surroundings. (Webster) Isn’t that word great here?

[2] Edgar Allan, if you’re still too young to have revisited 8th grade lit. homework.

[3] Yup, I have an 8th grader, obviously.