Lost and found

People tell stories. Long after the lived experience, we talk about how somebody fell off the wagon, got dragged through the mud, beat out the competition, crossed the country and probably would have stayed there, were it not for the telegram.

In my family, spinning a winning yarn is like a taking part in a boxing match. Picture people kicked back from the dinner table, bellies regretting those final swipes at the pie. Dancing at the edges of the ring, you wait for your shot in the conversation, bobbing and weaving around sudden changes of subject and random jabs at your character. Ideally, you get in and out without getting sucker punched by someone who wants to ruin your story with the facts. Unless you are able to go the distance, commanding attention for the duration of at least one good anecdote, you are a lowly palooka. It’s about timing, and aptitude, and I pity the fools who’ve had to experience this without prior training.

Pretty much all of my people delight in recounting an episode from my college days, when I took an unexpected turn for the worse. Normally a passenger in my brother’s car, this was the first time I’d driven home on my own. I was just 20 miles from my destination when I went right instead of left. I then drove twice that distance in the wrong direction before realizing I wasn’t getting where I wanted to go.

I was disoriented, agitated and unhappy. It was getting dark. Each minute that ticked past, I grew more anxious knowing that everything welling up in me was happening exponentially in my parents, who expected me more than an hour earlier. I had driven so far out into the country that it was difficult to find anything but land and trees, let alone a pay phone. I finally happened upon a small gas station, got directions from the attendant and found my way back. It was a warm, if slightly humiliating, homecoming. As I prepared for my return to campus two days later, my mother offered careful instructions. It was around 9:00 am, and I was headed east.

“The sun,” she coached, “will be in front of you. If, at any point, you see that the sun is behind you, you need to turn around and go the other way!”

This tale, rereleased at least annually for 40 years, never fails to get a laugh. Now that my parents are gone, and I see a little less of my brothers, my husband has taken up the storytelling mantle, entertaining guests at dinner parties, warning young drivers, and reminding me yet again of my poor sense of direction.

Not that I’ve ever really had a chance to forget about that. Folks like me make a lot of wrong turns, even when we’re traveling over roads we’ve been down many times before. And, my directional challenges aren’t limited to driving. In a restaurant, I can lose my way between the bathroom and my table. Unless the sun is close to rising or setting, or I have been in a place long enough to commit such things to memory, I can’t readily discern east from west or any other point on the compass. Five times out of ten, I’ll go awry getting off an elevator, even when I’m exiting on the floor from which I began.

For years, had you asked me to describe the outcome of this deficiency, I would have told you, with chagrin, that I’ve spent way too much time being lost. That, however, was before I started paying more attention to those blessed with good senses of direction. There is no denying that these people have an innate ability to orient themselves. Give them an address and three minutes with a map, and they’ll get you within striking distance of a destination. Still, they also mess up, miscalculate, double back, and once every so often, ask directions or study the map one more time. What they don’t do, ever, is declare themselves lost. Nope, never. They might go a little out of their way. They might find a different route. But, their navigational skills are never in question, and they aren’t stupid for not knowing better. What a revelation!

I can’t begin to describe the benefits, to me, of using a device that fits in my pocket, allows me to pull up a map, plug in my destination, and launch a personal tour guide with a pleasant voice. I’d part company with chocolate before letting go of my grip on modern navigation systems - this from someone who can’t go a day without a cacao-family infusion. But, the most valuable improvement in my ability to get from place to place nowadays comes from realizing that I am not, in fact, fundamentally defective.

Last week, on two different occasions, I traveled new roads without the aid of GPS. In the first instance, I’d drained my phone battery through the course of a day’s work and didn’t have a charger with me. The second time, I was out in the boonies without a decent cell signal. Neither situation was particularly dicey. I could have stopped to ask for guidance, purchased a replacement charger, or phoned a friend. Instead, I gave myself permission to miss an exit, to take the scenic route, to be a little turned around. I reminded myself that wandering isn’t necessarily the same as being lost. I found my way.

While I was out there roaming around, I spoke to myself without ridicule.

“I’m not sure this the road for me, but let’s see where it goes.”

And, the road, rising up to meet me, replied, “Attagirl!”

~Elizabeth