“Go. Point. Four. Miles and… Turn right. On. South. Atlanta Road.”I’m driving in Roswell, which is so not my neighborhood, and that makes me very nervous.
I have a disastrous sense of direction, and I’ve only had my driver’s license for six months. Somehow the suburbs confound me twice as much as downtown streets- Downtown is on a grid, but outside the Perimeter streets twist and turn endlessly, changing names without warning.
When Preppy’s in the car, I can keep my panic in check. He navigates, and bolsters my confidence with words of encouragement. But alone, I teeter on the edge of a nervous breakdown. He knows this, having patiently talked me through hysterical phone calls from Marietta and Buford. But he can’t be with me all the time, which is why he introduced me to my new traveling companion.
“Continue to. North. Atlanta Road.”
I call her Vera, and she knows where everything is. When Vera is giving directions, I keep the windows rolled up and the radio off. I don’t talk on the phone.
When Preppy’s in the car, I can keep my panic in check. He navigates, and bolsters my confidence with words of encouragement. But alone, I teeter on the edge of a nervous breakdown. He knows this, having patiently talked me through hysterical phone calls from Marietta and Buford. But he can’t be with me all the time, which is why he introduced me to my new traveling companion.
“Continue to. North. Atlanta Road.”
I call her Vera, and she knows where everything is. When Vera is giving directions, I keep the windows rolled up and the radio off. I don’t talk on the phone.
Vera is in control, and she is a wise and patient leader.
She can even tell me where the nearest Starbucks is. She does everything Preppy does except hold my hand and tell me I’m a good driver. I have every reason to believe future versions of her will do that.
Preppy’s out of town, joining his family at the beach for a few days. I can’t go because I’m in a play, and my free time is being spent rehearsing a dance number for the Atlanta Cotillion Cabaret. In heels. My feet hurt.
Last night I couldn’t sleep, so I built a little fort next to me in the bed- a Pillow Preppy, if you will. It didn’t help, and it took me forever to figure out why. Then I realized: Pillow Preppy doesn’t snore. I’ve grown so accustomed to his nightly symphony of grunts and mournful moose sounds that without it, the bedroom was entirely too quiet. Creepy quiet, just the distant thump of the nightclub behind our house, curiously located between a plus-size clothing store and a 24-hour day care center.
Preppy’s out of town, joining his family at the beach for a few days. I can’t go because I’m in a play, and my free time is being spent rehearsing a dance number for the Atlanta Cotillion Cabaret. In heels. My feet hurt.
Last night I couldn’t sleep, so I built a little fort next to me in the bed- a Pillow Preppy, if you will. It didn’t help, and it took me forever to figure out why. Then I realized: Pillow Preppy doesn’t snore. I’ve grown so accustomed to his nightly symphony of grunts and mournful moose sounds that without it, the bedroom was entirely too quiet. Creepy quiet, just the distant thump of the nightclub behind our house, curiously located between a plus-size clothing store and a 24-hour day care center.
Actually, the more I think about it, that makes perfect sense.
Anyhoo, I laid there in the dark, next to the eerily silent Pillow Preppy, wondering if for his next gift he could locate a device that would replicate his sleeping noises. Then when he goes out of town, I can just throw on the virtual sleeping fiancée and drift off without incident. Then it hit me: I used to be a fairly independent person. I didn’t require GPS navigators and fake bedmates made out of pillows. I didn’t even own a cellular phone until after Desperate Housewives premiered. I didn’t need such things. I made my way on my own just fine. Somehow, being in a relationship was turning me into a puddle of inactive goo, no longer capable of taking care of myself.
So back in the car, I decide to exert some of that old energy- a little of that self-sufficient can-do attitude that used to define me. I turn off the GPS. I’ve been to Roswell a few times, and I have the address.
Anyhoo, I laid there in the dark, next to the eerily silent Pillow Preppy, wondering if for his next gift he could locate a device that would replicate his sleeping noises. Then when he goes out of town, I can just throw on the virtual sleeping fiancée and drift off without incident. Then it hit me: I used to be a fairly independent person. I didn’t require GPS navigators and fake bedmates made out of pillows. I didn’t even own a cellular phone until after Desperate Housewives premiered. I didn’t need such things. I made my way on my own just fine. Somehow, being in a relationship was turning me into a puddle of inactive goo, no longer capable of taking care of myself.
So back in the car, I decide to exert some of that old energy- a little of that self-sufficient can-do attitude that used to define me. I turn off the GPS. I’ve been to Roswell a few times, and I have the address.
I don’t need Vera or Preppy. I can do this.
A half-hour later, I pull over and turn Vera back on. I’m in Dunwoody. Don’t know how that happened.
I realize I have romanticized the old me quite a bit more than I realized. I knew I always picture the old me as thinner and less awkward- apparently I also fooled myself into thinking I was competent. I was never competent! I have always been just as bumbling and neurotic as I am now. The only reason I’ve noticed it so much while Preppy’s been away is because since he came along I’ve been ever-so-slightly more honest about it, and he was willing to help prevent me from getting lost or accidentally setting something on fire. He made it okay for me to admit that I can’t do everything on my own. Which is why he needs to come back, before I accidentally drive to Tennessee in a sleep-deprived haze and can’t get myself home.
“Please wait,” says Vera. “Calculating new route.”
You do that, sweetie. I’ll just sit here and wait for further instruction.
A half-hour later, I pull over and turn Vera back on. I’m in Dunwoody. Don’t know how that happened.
I realize I have romanticized the old me quite a bit more than I realized. I knew I always picture the old me as thinner and less awkward- apparently I also fooled myself into thinking I was competent. I was never competent! I have always been just as bumbling and neurotic as I am now. The only reason I’ve noticed it so much while Preppy’s been away is because since he came along I’ve been ever-so-slightly more honest about it, and he was willing to help prevent me from getting lost or accidentally setting something on fire. He made it okay for me to admit that I can’t do everything on my own. Which is why he needs to come back, before I accidentally drive to Tennessee in a sleep-deprived haze and can’t get myself home.
“Please wait,” says Vera. “Calculating new route.”
You do that, sweetie. I’ll just sit here and wait for further instruction.
