I’m guessing that, on the average, about once per week a driver hails me during my morning walk to ask for directions. I know that many joggers and exercise walkers resent being asked to stop their workout to give directions, and some go so far as to ignore the lost motorist. Being one who spends a good deal of time being lost, I always stop and try to help.
The problem is that the poor bastard asking directions has no idea that he or she is dealing with someone whose brain is not properly wired to give good directions.
As I’ve mentioned on several occasions, I know how to get from Point A (almost always my house) to Point B, from Point A to Points C, D, and E. However, if someone asks me how to get from point B to point E, my brain seizes.
The result, of course, is that the unsuspecting sorry-ass, lost motorist (who is at Point B but who wants to get to Point E) sees only the catatonic expression on my face, attributing it, surely, to the sweat and accelerated heart rate that comes from exercise. Little does he or she know that a klaxon is going off inside my head signifying a neurological meltdown as I try to mentally connect Point B to Point E.
Still, I do the best I can, and I dispense the requested directions. The hapless motorist drives away secure in the knowledge that, by following my directions, he or she will arrive at Point E.
Invariably, about a minute or two after the thankful driver leaves the scene, I realize (in the best case) that I gave the trusting soul roundabout directions born of my inadequate directional brain chemistry and (in the worst case) I sent the poor bastard in the wrong direction. On many occasions, I have feared that a now-more-than-ever-lost driver will circle back to kick my ass.
Hell, I mean well.
I think what I need is a shirt on which appears (front and back). “I GIVE SHITTY DIRECTIONS. ASK AT YOUR OWN RISK.”