And there’s something that I would like to say from my heart.
Are you crazy?
This might be a good time to share with you that here in Debbie Land, no one ever follows me.
This is because I’m directionally challenged. While a student at the University of Georgia, I took a left turn where a right was supposed to be and ended up in downtown Athens at the Ramada Inn. I’ve been lost at Dollywood, lost at Epcot, and don’t even get me started about the confusion which arises every time they rearrange my Super Walmart.
Don’t bother suggesting a compass; it would be no help at all.
I never mastered cardinal directions and have no clearer knowledge of north, south, east, and west than your typical third grader. You know, up …down… side … side. When the husband starts pointing off in some random direction and calling it north, it shorts my circuits.
I still don’t know the difference between my left hand and my right hand, and to this day, I can’t say the pledge of allegiance without rubbing my index finger against my writer’s lump to ensure that I’m using the correct one.
Harmless enough, but perhaps I should remind you that these are words
If there’s anything less prudent than tagging along behind a directionally challenged blond, it would be doing so while she is talking and driving.
I’m a B- driver even when my mouth is closed. I didn’t take driver education in high school because I was afraid it would lower my GPA. Somehow, I convinced my usually careful father that he could teach me this driving thing as well as any high school teacher. Bless his heart, he tried. To his dying day, he truly believed that he had succeeded.
He recalled hours of on road instruction.
I recall father/daughter anxiety sessions where I ended up either crying or retreating to my happy place. The Duchess tried as well. In her defense, though, it’s kind of hard to teach someone to drive when you have your hands over your eyes and you’re making the sizzling sound.
After 32 years of practice, I have built enough confidence to motor about in familiar territory. The problem arises when I venture into parts unknown. I can find the seediest side of any city. Sometimes, I find a new city entirely. The husband once told me that Roswell Road in Atlanta spanned all the way past Pittsburgh.
I made the mental note never to head down Roswell Road by myself.
The husband has a GPS for business, and sometimes, he lets me borrow it. I love our GPS and have named her Gypsy. When I turn her on, I always sing one line from Fleetwood mac’s song of the same name. In my head, I sound just like Stevie Nicks.
The only problem with Gypsy is that she is equipped with too many options. Not a problem for a normal person, but I’m also an impatient clicker. If some piece of technology is not responding quickly enough for me, I double click or find some random button to boost it along.
This is the reason that I know the word
in 17 languages.
If you *got* that… hello kindred soul.
If you’re waiting for a reason for this ramble, it’s this:
Sometimes, if you meander long enough, you come right back to the place where you started.
So here I am at the beginning. And I ask again...
Are you crazy?
I’m truly appreciative of every little picture over there on that side board. It’s nice to know that I’m not talking to myself here. Just to be on the safe side, however, let’s not call you followers. Let’s just call you friends.