Fallen Between Cracks

Directions have never been my forte. No matter how many times I have traveled to a designated destination there is no guarantee that I will arrive there directly. More likely than not I will take a nice detour: get off the freeway one exit too early, take three or four wrong turns and chances are I'll end up calling home asking a more experienced adult to point me in the right direction. It all began when I was the young age of three years old visiting my grandparents in New York City. I wandered off from the rest of the family and was on my own in the city for a very brief time period. It was long enough to frighten my mother and it resulted in her buying one of those child-leashes. It was red with Velcro and for the remainder of the trip my wrist was always connected to hers. It's a shame I don't wear that anymore, there have been many times I would have saved myself a lot of time and gas had my mother been by my side informing me which way to turn. Maybe GPS's are the grown-up version of the child-leash. Perhaps I should consider investing in one.

When I was a junior in high school I drove the fifteen minutes to my tennis club three times a week. I was as familiar with that route as I was with my own bedroom. One particular winter day I was running a bit late. I quickly threw on my tennis skirt and t-shirt, grabbed my racket and keys, jumped in my reliable Park Avenue Buick {I was the only person in the state of Utah under the age of 85 that drove this particular make} and merged onto I-15 in order to arrive to my tennis lesson on time. I don't know if I was distracted by the radio or by the thoughts that were occupying my mind at the time, but somehow I missed the turn that I had made more times than I could count. Rather than continue on I-15 southbound until the road ran out, I took the next possible exit without reading the green road signs indicating what part of the state I was now entering. Yes, I took the exit leading right into Rose Park, infamous for being the sketchiest city in Utah. It didn't take me long to realize where I was and soon afterward began hyperventilating. I reached into the cup holder to call home and ask for direction out of that place, only to realize that as a result of the time crunch I had been in I didn't take time to grab my phone. It was shortly after that that I glanced at my gas gauge and saw that the needle was teetering on the edge of empty. Along with my cell phone, I had forgotten to pick up my wallet. I immediately began envisioning the worst possible scenario: I could see myself driving around the streets of Rose Park, desperately looking for a way out when the Buick would run out of gas leaving me stranded and without a phone, wallet or any source of identification in Rose Park. I would live the remainder of my life orphaned in the ghetto, lost and forgotten to all who had known me in my previous life. It was then that the tears began and I pulled to the side of the road to offer the most heart-felt prayer I could utter. Most capable drivers would be able to make a few turns and find the freeway entrance, but due to my disability with directions, I could not. I drove around Rose Park for what seemed like an eternity, the entire time natural salt water streaming down my cheeks. At one point I almost rolled my window down to ask the mailman for directions, but because I had watched one too many Law and Order episodes I quickly reconsidered. After twenty or so minutes driving around completely disoriented, I finally stumbled upon the I-15 Northbound freeway entrance. Hallelujah! I wouldn't be forced to live in poverty with strangers the remainder of my life after all.
You'd think that after being lost in Rose Park I would do my best to stay focused and take the right exit this time around. Well, I'm not your average Joe and perhaps subconsciously I wanted another adventure, so I got off one exit early this time. Luckily, this location was smaller and simpler than Rose Park and it only took a bit more than five minutes to find the entrance back to the freeway. Rather than getting back on the northbound side of things like I was supposed to, I ended up going southbound once again. I wrongly assumed that I was familiar enough with Rose Park at this point to exit there again and find my way back to I-15 northbound in no time at all. In those ten minutes from the time I left Rose Park to when I returned, every memory I had of that city must have been erased because not one thing looked the least bit familiar. I once again wandered the streets looking for any sign of a freeway entrance and that deep fear I had of spending the rest of my life as a resident in Rose Park slowly crept back into my mind and once again brought tears to my eyes. When I finally found that freeway entrance for the second time I went with the "three strikes" method, figuring that I had already missed the first 45 minutes of a 90 minute tennis lesson, there was a solid chance that I would, for the fourth time that day, take the wrong exit, and I was too shaken up to even grip the tennis racket properly. Yes, I would bag this lesson and travel safely to the exit that I knew so well, the one that would take me to my home. All I wanted at that point in the afternoon was a big hug from my mom while she reassured me that they would have hired all the FBI agents in the world to look for me, had I remained stranded in Rose Park that day.
I wish I could say that was the only time I had an experience like that. Unfortunately, something similar to this happens almost weekly to me. I have learned to take my phone and wallet with me, always. Although, I think a GPS would still work wonders on a girl like me.