Oh, shit.
The ramp to Interstate 287 heading southbound flew by in the corner of my peripheral vision. My throat constricted as I gripped the steering wheel, causing my knuckles to whiten.
I had missed my exit while trying to decipher a spaghetti-like mess on my phone’s GPS. Deciphering isn’t easy at forty-five miles an hour.
It’s an all-around unpleasant experience, getting lost on the road. Suddenly you’re leading the pack in a busy lane, angry horns start blaring behind you, you attempt to negotiate the unknown ahead by pretending to know what you’re doing… Et voilà! A hasty mistake leads you astray.
“Rerouting…”
In these moments, it’s easy to see how even the most minor of inconveniences can send me into a state of panic, depending on a few factors:
- Best case scenario: I’ve met my informal quota of good-quality sleep/yoga/leafy greens. Cool as a cucumber in the face of unexpected events, I briefly notice the exit passing by before letting go. I welcome change and am excited for whatever happens next, being the total guru that I am.
- Worst case scenario: My life is a mess and it’s painfully obvious to seemingly everyone around me. I’m falling apart at the seams and my tension is manifesting mentally, physically, perhaps cosmically… I’m one tense MF. Missing that exit is legitimately the WORST thing to have happened within the last 10 minutes. I can’t seem to catch a break. I’m also convinced that my GPS is possessed by a smug, bitchy poltergeist.
- Most likely scenario: I vacillate between these two scenarios depending on how much sleep I’ve gotten or how much caffeine is in my system at a given time.
Thankfully, during this momentary clusterfuck, I was well-rested, still full from a salmon cream cheese omelet, and calm as a result. It was a Saturday afternoon in mid-July and my schedule was wide open. My destination wasn’t far from where I had missed the ramp. Even the typically smug, bitchy poltergeist decided to help me find an alternative route (complete with winding back roads and horses grazing on tall summer grass). My breath slowed as panic loosened its grip.
I am no stranger to this feeling. Trust me, I know that my default state leans towards anxiety, and it can be a daily struggle to quiet the restless monkey in my mind. To me, control is comfortable, familiarity reassuring. Unexpected events, however mundane, are neither.
I do the best I can.
“Rerouting…”
Just the day prior, there was a serious accident on Route 80—a tractor trailer had overturned on the highway, gushing fuel like a ruptured artery and shutting down lanes of traffic for several miles.
Despite my suggestion to postpone, my boyfriend agreed to meet me for a date night at our favorite roadside spot for homemade ice cream. He was in high spirits even after sitting in glacial traffic that day. To be fair, he is usually thrilled by the prospect of sweets.
“How was the drive?” My plastic spoon was no match for the nigh-frozen brownie in our sundae. I suddenly felt the unprecedented desire to own a harpoon.
Sensing my frustration, he picked it up and let me take a bite. “It was alright. I checked before I got here.” A smile brightened his face as he watched me grapple with brain freeze.
“But I also could’ve taken 46. There’s more than one way to get here.”
There’s more than one way to get here? Huh. I’m too set in my ways, I guess.
We sat in his car and finished the ice cream. Our parking spot offered us the perfect view of patrons at picnic tables being eaten alive by mosquitoes. Night had fallen and lights whizzed by on the highway. I heard bikers in the distance and wondered whether they predominantly felt fear or freedom. There was nowhere else to be on this Friday night, other than in the moment.
“You have arrived.”
