A Broken Woman

Last year, I took a wrong turn in Cleveland, landing myself in what can only be described as an inner city street gathering where I maneuvered myself through hundreds of people slamming on my car doors at three o'clock in the morning. I have wasted no less than two tanks of gas since moving, as I take the most inefficient routes to every location in Charlottesville. Last month, I nearly severed a friendship out of frustration, as I repeatedly explained to Matt that I was on the corner of 4th and O Street. Unaware that Washington was divided into four quadrants, I was alone in the SW ghetto of D.C., when I needed to be in NW suburbia. One hour later, I arrived at my destination.

Still, I refuse to get a GPS. Perhaps it is because I cling to my non existent innate sense of direction. It is certainly not a factor of pride, because I have no shame asking directions. I believe, ultimately, it is cheapness, and the fear that if I did get a GPS, I might become best friends with Genovieve (her name, obviously) or force her to be my therapist. Tonight, however, I am a broken woman.

After a lovely Easter Feaster in Philadelphia with my sister, Maleek and I began the journey home with a stomach full of delicious lamb and a travel mug full of coffee. I cruised through Dover and Baltimore, bopping along to classic road trip tunes. As I drove through D.C. on 95, I began to question my mental atlas, as I was not recognizing landmarks, and I was quite sure I had never crossed a drawbridge. At some point, I remember there being a 495, however, the only signs I saw pointed to 495 North; plus, I was on an interstate that included the number 95, and I was bearing South. How far off course could I be?

This question would be answered two hours later, when I realized I was twenty minutes outside of Richmond and would have to backtrack no less than fifty miles to arrive home. Thankfully for my sanity, the highway speed limit was recently increased to 70, meaning I could easily justify doing 80. The dashboard thermometer read 78 degrees, and the wind blew through my hair as I allowed David Gray to soothe my soul. Even now, my spirits were high.

It was not until I realized the coffee/water combo had taken affect that my trip took a turn for the worse. Due to past experiences (if I was technological enough to use hyperlink, I would link this to a previous post), I am very attentive to bodily beckonings, so I entered the nearest gas station. I wish it were a Speedway, Exxon, or WaWa, as I find their facilities to be the most respectable, but at this point, I could not be particular.

The bathroom was occupied, a common problem with single stall restrooms, and one I was prepared to endure. I was not, however, ready for the sequence of events that followed.

As I waited, a man approached the bathroom with his son and daughter. The young boy entered the bathroom with his father, and the little girl joined the woman currently using the ladies room. Although becoming desperate, I resisted the urge to seize the child away from the door and tell her to wait in line. I only caught a glimpse of the mother, but I believe she was Latino. Through deductive reasoning, I concluded that the family went to the mother's side for Easter dinner. Rather than the traditional American honey-baked ham and deviled eggs, they ate a medley of refried beans, spicy guacamole, and overly seasoned rice which the Caucasian stomachs could not tolerate.

By this time, the line had grown. As we stood, waiting for the family to finish, I heard the paper towel lever and was thankful I would be able to finally use the bathroom. Instead, I heard the lever pulled again, and after the tenth time, the noise had what I imagine to be similar effects of Chinese water torture. Crank, crank, rip. Crank, crank, rip. Again. And again. I am quite convinced the mother and daughter were bathing themselves, although I would not stay long enough to find out.

The young boy had emerged from the men's room. Even he was becoming worried, realizing she was using an incessant amount of paper towels. When he called through the door to see if his mother was okay, she responded she was simply drying her hands. Her hands were either very large are very furry. As I analyzed the situation to determine which was the case, the dad was finished, and at such times, the gender on the door cannot inhibit one from the task at hand. Thankfully, I made it out alive, but that is the only credit I can attribute to this experience. I hope the same was true for the mother and daughter still occupying the bathroom.

While this may not be directly linked to my lack of directional savvy, I have never encountered such problems in the Speedway on 29. Regardless, it has put me over the edge, and if anyone would like to give me a GPS free of charge, I will gladly accept.