Misdirection; or, All En-Compassing Ignorance

Being a dude, and being a dude who's grown up in the small-town South, I was born with an innate sense of direction. Blindfold me, spin me around 10 times, drop me off 20 miles east of nowhere, and I can find my way home in without so much as a compass. The compass is in my head!

Yeah, really. I just prefer taking the scenic route sometimes. Through the scary parts of places like Cincinnati and Baton Rouge. Hmm.

OK, truth is, my sense of direction is equal to that of a drunken chipmunk. For instance, on my way back from the basketball arena here in Baton Rouge to my hotel, I turned a five-minute drive into 20 minutes. And that was with the GPS on my iPhone. Too … many … turns!

Yes, I'm easily confused, not to mention a habitual second-guesser. Maps are like a foreign language to me – can't read 'em. And forget trying to get myself unlost by using my inner compass. Apparently, that piece of equipment got broke during one of my youthful bike-riding stunts.

A road trip for me is not complete if I haven't gotten lost at least once. Not just a little lost, we're talking spectacularly lost. We're talking a couple of counties over lost. Like when I was in Cincinnati trying to find the justice center, and instead wound up west of town in Scaryville, Ohio. Or when coming back from Tuscaloosa a few years ago and winding back up in Alabama.

I used to think I could get myself around, but no, I can't. I still get lost in Tupelo. Well, not get lost so much as taking wrong turns – often. I still get easily misplaced on the east side of town.

Better get to bed. Coming back home tomorrow, assuming I can find my way from the hotel to the highway just outside my window. No guarantees.