Uncharted Territories, My New Found Love For Global Positioning Systems, Trying To Beat Death On A Bridge, And Why I Need To Learn Spanish As A Second Language.
June 30th, 2009There are some things in life I know with utmost certainty I can do well. And then, there are some things in life that I have absolutely no business attempting to do whatsoever.
Take for instance, cleaning.
Nobody loves to clean more than I do. I think I just might be the only person on the planet who gets genuinely excited when I inhale the scent of ‘Clorox’ and ‘Fabreeze’ wafting in the air. As I have mentioned before, I seem to get especially thrilled when I hear the terms: cleaning solutions, industrial strength disinfectants, debris removal, sanitizing agents, commercial potency, deodorizing and/or neutralizing. Seriously, those are just a few of the adjectives that make my heart skip a beat.
I sincerely love ‘All Things Clean’.
On the other hand, there are some things I cannot handle.
Such as, ‘Driving’ in ‘Uncharted Territories’.
I will have you know that when I am in my element and cruising along the back roads on my own turf, I can maneuver with the best of the best. However, when I am faced with unfamiliar ground? Things tend to get a little complicated. I have a severe tendency for getting lost. Even within the confines of my own town. And even when other people are driving.
I literally have self-induced Panic Attacks, at the mere thought of being forced to drive outside of my ‘comfort zone’. And by ‘comfort zone’ I mean the four square miles surrounding my house.
On a whim, and possibly out of sheer boredom, I decided to accept an offer that involved cleaning and driving to help a very dear friend. I wasn’t the least bit concerned with the cleaning portion of this favor. But, I did have serious reservations with respects to the driving aspect of this favor.
Fortunately, my father knows I have a penchant for getting lost, and how I am subject to involuntary, internal pangs of anxiety, when faced with foreign soil. The night before, out of the goodness of his over-sized heart, my father recommended we perform a ‘dry run’ and take an actual tour to some of the destinations.
Even with this preemptive strike [which did in fact, alleviate a lot of my unnecessary fears] I was still quite apprehensive about driving all the way up The New Jersey Turnpike to Elizabeth.
Every one of my readers, and every one of my real life friends already knows exactly how I feel when it comes to The New Jersey Turnpike.
Nonetheless, I had already given my word, and I vowed to fulfill my promise.
Friday morning I met my friend [who will now be referred to as Nightingale] in the parking lot of our complex, promptly at 6:45 am. Nightingale suggested I use her car for the day’s events because all of the necessary cleaning supplies were already loaded up in the back of her truck. Plus, I wouldn’t have to put any unnecessary miles on my own car.
I always feel slightly uptight about driving someone else’s vehicle. While my car IS a total piece of crap, lacking any power or ‘pick up,’ thus rendering me incapable of merging properly, at least I am fully aware of my car’s deficiencies, limitations, and blind spots.
In order for me to get acclimated with her truck, Nightingale proposed a test drive around the block. Much to my amazement, her SUV handled just like a regular car. I felt confident enough to accept the responsibility of driving her vehicle.
Armed with a full tank of gas, an EZPass for the tolls, and my father’s GPS device, I was positively convinced I could handle the tasks at hand.
My drive on the NJTPK could not have been any smoother. Apparently, she was more forgiving than usual, as there was little to no traffic. I even began to enjoy the comforts of Nightingale’s truck. It was a refreshing change to drive a vehicle that had a working driver side mirror, a functional cigarette lighter, and a decent set of breaks!
When the time came for me to exit the Turnpike, having no clue where I was headed, I did not allow my typical nervousness to kick in. Instead, I quietly prayed to the GPS gods to, ‘please, please, please, give me the correct coordinates, and get me to my destination safely’.
I listened very carefully and very closely to the words streaming from the GPS, “In 0.2 miles turn right.” And I did it. “In 0.l miles turn right, and stay to your right.” And I did it. I was delighted and relieved with the accuracy of this lovely device.
With My New Found Love For Global Positioning Systems, overly enthusiastic, and beaming with pride for remaining so cool and calm, I thought to myself, ‘Hey Now! Check Me Out! Wow! I am totally doing this!’
Unfortunately, since I was distracted and prematurely patting myself on the back, I did NOT hear the next set of instructions.
And little did I know those very set of directions were absolutely crucial.
Having missed an ever-so vital piece of information, I turned right, and stayed right as previously instructed, but I did NOT make the essential quick left turn.
And that’s when everything went awry.
Instead of heading into Elizabeth, I was [unwillingly] about to drive over The Goethals Bridge.
I feel obligated to mention that I am TERRIFIED, PETRIFIED, and SCARED TO DEATH of all things bridges and tunnels. Especially bridges that are extremely narrow, only two lanes wide, and that allow 18-wheelers to mingle next to the cars.
[The Goethals Bridge has two 10-foot (3.0 m)-wide (3 m) lanes in each direction, which do not meet the 12-foot (3.7 m) requirement of current highway design standards. The bridge also has no shoulders for emergency access.]
Knowing these facts, I rapidly tried to figure out any possible way for me to turn the car around in order to avert driving over the bridge.
Alas, I quickly realized I could not stop the inevitable.
As I looked out each window at the harrowing view, I immediately went into panic mode. The palms of my hands began sweating profusely, my heart was racing, and I thought for sure I was going to black out.
I drove in super slow motion, staring straight ahead, ignoring the vulgar language, middle fingers, and car horns blaring in my direction, while gripping the steering wheel so tightly, my knuckles turned power white.
The only thing that remotely held me together was the soothing sound of the GPS automated voice, talking me off the ledge of complete hysteria. I felt reassured everything would eventually be okay as soon as I heard ‘Recalculating Route Now.’
After what seemed like a lifetime had passed, I was directed to ‘Exit Left’ at the end of the bridge. Then I was given a series of instructions, which I followed perfectly.
Now, there was just one more problem.
I would have to get back on the bridge.
And drive over it.
Again.
In the other direction.
Already traumatized and practically in tears, I heard my cell phone chime with a text message. I didn’t want to look at my phone while playing another game of ‘Trying To Beat Death On A Bridge’ but force of habit made me check.
It was a text message from one of my favorite people, Amy The Bartender [Who Plays Tennis But Is Not Ranked]. She was also having a rough morning. Amy The Bartender had high hopes a nice hot shower would do her some good and help loosen her stiff muscles. Sadly for Amy The Bartender, that was not the case.
I opened my cell phone and saw this:
“Amy The Bartender is exhausted, sore, and freezing because she had to shave her legs in another cold shower this morning.”
They say ‘misery loves company’ and I am no exception to that rule.
After reading that text message, and visualizing Amy The Bartender’s angry disposition, plus the fact that she texts in the third person, made me laugh all the way back across that bridge.
Of course, a whole new set of problems was about to begin.
Now I don’t know if it was because I had been riddled with anxiety, or because I had laughed so hard, but suddenly, I felt as if my bladder was going to explode. I needed to get to a restroom. And right quick. I am pretty sure the two cups of coffee, and the bottle of water I drank that morning did not help the brewing pressure in my abdomen.
However, I didn’t want to defer off course again. I needed to pick up a woman that works for Nightingale to assist with the cleaning jobs and I knew I was very close to her house. I figured I would be better off picking her up and then I could deal with trying to locate a suitable restroom.
Thanks to the GPS [an electronical device I will now and forever consider my new best friend] I arrived at her house without any further incidents.
I beeped the horn once and a tiny, totally super adorable, black haired woman appeared. I unlocked the doors, let her in, said good morning, and that’s when I discovered she did not speak a single word of English. And I can’t speak Spanish even if my very life depended on it.
Let the game of ‘Why I Need To Learn Spanish As A Second Language’ begin.
My plans on asking her where I could find the closest and cleanest restroom were now an impossible feat. I tried to communicate with her, via charades and the use of body language, but that wasn’t very beneficial when attempting to demonstrate my urgency in needing a bathroom. I can only guess, from the very confused expression plastered on her face, that she must have thought I was wearing a really uncomfortable pair of underwear.
[Note to self: Invest and purchase the Rosetta Stone Program]
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Rommie placed a few of her own supplies in the back seat of the truck, while I punched the keypad buttons on the GPS. And we were back on the road.
Considering I had just barely survived the disturbing and upsetting bridge disaster, I decided I was not ready to take on the new stress that driving on the Garden State Parkway would cause me. As much as I complain about the NJTPK and what a thorn in my side she can be, at least I know her. I know everyone of her potholes and I am familiar with every crack and fine line on her asphalt surface.
As I hauled ass down the highway, clenching every muscle in my body tighter than I ever have, for the duration of a forty-five minute ride, I prayed repeatedly I would be able to ‘hold it in’ until I reached my house.
When we finally did make it to my house? Rommie must have thought we were at the first job. Clearly, she had no idea where we were as she started to get out of the passenger side door and reached for her cleaning equipment.
Desperately searching for a way to communicate with her, I wracked my brain and summoned all of my 7th grade knowledge pertaining to the Spanish Language. With no time left to spare, and impending doom looming over my fragile bladder, I shouted:
“No!” “Mi Casa!” “El Bano!”
Rommie, understanding what I said, let out a sweet chuckle of laughter.
I sprinted in and out of my house and took care of business in record time. As I jumped back in the car, I attempted to ‘mime’ the word “Whew” and I pretended to wipe the imaginary sweat off my forehead.
And THAT was all before 9am.
[**Part Two: And the rest of this story, can be found in the comments section of this blog post.**]
