Aren't those global positioning systems (GPS) great? It's so comforting to know if I have my GPS navigation system, I will never be lost. My GPS will always know exactly where I am. Unlike friends in the car who might be back seat drivers, it never nags me about going the wrong way. Like a patient teacher, GPS guides me through the confusing maze of streets and highways. My GPS will always be there for me.
My first experience with GPS was last year when I rented a car. My husband, Marty, had thrown out his back while working in Houston and I drove down to rescue him. A GPS system was a free benefit with the rental car. Driving down the same highway for three hours, the peaceful silence was abruptly broken when the GPS system advised "Continue on I-45." I jerked so hard, I nearly drove off the road. So much for being comforted.
Marty and I each got a new phone this summer that came with a built in navigation system. Our first test of the phone's GPS was on a summer vacation we took with his daughter and two grandkids to a family reunion in Illinois. Every time the kids got restless, I pulled out my phone and looked up the nearest McDonald's playground. When it was close to dinner time, I used the phone's GPS to research the nearest restaurants.
I loved my new phone. Yet for some unexplained reason, we would just be driving down the highway and the phone GPS would decide that we were out in the middle of the field. "You are now off track" it would announce. Driving down the highway for miles, the phone continued to display our position 500 feet off to the right. Watching the monitor, it appeared that we were joy riding through the fields, bent on the destruction of some poor farmer's corn crop. I guess my GPS doesn't always know "exactly" where I am.
Sometimes Marty and I decide that we will take our own route. We leave the GPS system on as a back up in case we get into trouble. We decide the route that we want and the GPS decides the route that it wants. Everything is fine until the GPS realizes that we are not taking its advice. "You are now off track" it warns. Like disobedient children we continue taking our own path. "You are now off track" it reminds again. It continues warning until it realizes the depth of our defiance. Finally, like a weary parent, it gives in. "Recalculating route." Sometimes we change our minds several times along the way. "Recalculating route" it says each time. "Oh stop nagging me!" I yell and in disgust, I turn it off.
Despite my impatience with it, the GPS system is very impartial and patient with me. It carefully directs me. "Turn left in 1.2 miles." or "Merge on to highway 121." then "Make slight right turn on to access road." or even "Follow left bend in road." However, the system seems to think that I am incapable of seeing the road ahead of me. It talks to me as if guiding a blind man. I imagine that if I were in San Francisco driving down Lombard Street, the crookedest street in the world, it would feel compelled to say "Veer left. Veer right. Veer left. Veer right..."
Often I have driven among the tall buildings downtown. I was so grateful to have my GPS to guide me through the confusion of dense traffic and one way streets. Then I realize that I haven't heard anything from my GPS system lately. I have to know which way to go. The cars are pressing all around me. I fear my turn is coming up soon. I reach over to my faithful GPS. Why isn't it advising me? I pick it up and read the display. "Your GPS signal is weak."
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Life on the Edge
Why am I always "just in time"? No matter where I go: meetings, carpool, classes, or even social occasions, I arrive at the last possible moment. I slide into a chair just as the speaker stands up to talk. I drive into the carpool lot just as my quartz watch ticks to the appointed minute. I step my way carefully past strangers' toes in the dark to my cushy theater seat just as the previews begin playing. What's wrong with being early? Why can't I arrive for every appointment 5 minutes early instead of 5 minutes late?
I think that I am following a great family tradition. My mother was late everywhere. I never realized how common place and widely known this was until a recent conversation with my cousin. When we were kids, her family and mine got together for dinner and cards on an almost weekly basis. We saw each other for Christmas and family reunions. "We always had to tell your mom to come an hour earlier than everyone else. That way we knew that she would be on time." Wow! I never knew that. I guess that left me predisposed to be late.
Over the years I have made concerted efforts to improve my "on time" record. In the past I used to always be 20 minutes late, now it is often only 2. I used to hit the snooze on my alarm clock for 45 minutes, now it is only 10. I used to never, ever get up early for absolutely anything. Now three times a week I swim laps only minutes after rising from bed at 5 AM. (OK. OK. I don't really get up until 5:05 AM.) Even though I have improved, I just cannot seem to defeat this bad habit.
What is it that causes me to be late? What is the great temptation here? I think it is the desire to squeeze just one more thing out of the limited time that I am given. I sleep 10 minutes later because no matter what time I get up, I end up being 2 minutes late. As I am getting ready, I look at the clock to see how I'm doing. If I'm running late, I leave something out. If I'm 5 minutes late, I eat my breakfast in the car instead of at home. Ten minutes late: breakfast in the car, and put makeup on while I'm driving. Fifteen minutes late: breakfast in the car, makeup on while driving, and I skip giving the dogs their medicine. Twenty minutes late: breakfast in car, makeup while driving, no dog medicine, and I don't shave my legs. The problem with this system is that after a few late days, my husband is stuck with sick dogs and an ugly, hungry, hairy wife. That probably explains why he tries to help me.
My poor husband, Marty. He is the type to be early everywhere. If we have to be at church 15 minutes early, he gets up an hour early. If we're going to a new place, he leaves 30 minutes early. Worse yet, he drives to the appointment the night before just so he knows the correct route so he can be on time (early) the next day. How could two such mismatched people ever end up married?
So, by some cruel twist this guy who will gladly sit in the parking lot for 30 minutes before an appointment (just to be sure he is on time) ends up running around the house every morning trying to get his wife off to work on time. I like to have a scrambled egg and toast for breakfast. Marty began to notice that I was running late every morning, so he offered to butter my toast. Then he noticed that I was rushing out the door, so he started carrying my purse and my briefcase to the car. This morning as I was drying my hair (5 minutes late) he got my shoes out of the closet and set them by my clothes. Sometimes he even drives me to the carpool lot so that I can eat my breakfast, apply my makeup and put on my shoes, all while riding in the car.
Maybe I'm just a drama queen. Maybe I secretly enjoy the daily adrenalin rush of trying to get out the door on time. I just know that if I ever ask Marty to buy an RV so that I can shower while he drives me to work, I'll know I've gone too far.
I think that I am following a great family tradition. My mother was late everywhere. I never realized how common place and widely known this was until a recent conversation with my cousin. When we were kids, her family and mine got together for dinner and cards on an almost weekly basis. We saw each other for Christmas and family reunions. "We always had to tell your mom to come an hour earlier than everyone else. That way we knew that she would be on time." Wow! I never knew that. I guess that left me predisposed to be late.
Over the years I have made concerted efforts to improve my "on time" record. In the past I used to always be 20 minutes late, now it is often only 2. I used to hit the snooze on my alarm clock for 45 minutes, now it is only 10. I used to never, ever get up early for absolutely anything. Now three times a week I swim laps only minutes after rising from bed at 5 AM. (OK. OK. I don't really get up until 5:05 AM.) Even though I have improved, I just cannot seem to defeat this bad habit.
What is it that causes me to be late? What is the great temptation here? I think it is the desire to squeeze just one more thing out of the limited time that I am given. I sleep 10 minutes later because no matter what time I get up, I end up being 2 minutes late. As I am getting ready, I look at the clock to see how I'm doing. If I'm running late, I leave something out. If I'm 5 minutes late, I eat my breakfast in the car instead of at home. Ten minutes late: breakfast in the car, and put makeup on while I'm driving. Fifteen minutes late: breakfast in the car, makeup on while driving, and I skip giving the dogs their medicine. Twenty minutes late: breakfast in car, makeup while driving, no dog medicine, and I don't shave my legs. The problem with this system is that after a few late days, my husband is stuck with sick dogs and an ugly, hungry, hairy wife. That probably explains why he tries to help me.
My poor husband, Marty. He is the type to be early everywhere. If we have to be at church 15 minutes early, he gets up an hour early. If we're going to a new place, he leaves 30 minutes early. Worse yet, he drives to the appointment the night before just so he knows the correct route so he can be on time (early) the next day. How could two such mismatched people ever end up married?
So, by some cruel twist this guy who will gladly sit in the parking lot for 30 minutes before an appointment (just to be sure he is on time) ends up running around the house every morning trying to get his wife off to work on time. I like to have a scrambled egg and toast for breakfast. Marty began to notice that I was running late every morning, so he offered to butter my toast. Then he noticed that I was rushing out the door, so he started carrying my purse and my briefcase to the car. This morning as I was drying my hair (5 minutes late) he got my shoes out of the closet and set them by my clothes. Sometimes he even drives me to the carpool lot so that I can eat my breakfast, apply my makeup and put on my shoes, all while riding in the car.
Maybe I'm just a drama queen. Maybe I secretly enjoy the daily adrenalin rush of trying to get out the door on time. I just know that if I ever ask Marty to buy an RV so that I can shower while he drives me to work, I'll know I've gone too far.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Vaccinations
My office mate took her baby to the doctor today for his six month checkup. He received the standard inoculations for his age. His mommy said that he cried just like the last time he got shots, but this time was better in one way. She didn't cry.
It reminds me of other visits to the doctor for shots. When I went for shots as a kid, they lied to me. "This won't hurt a bit." So I trustingly offered up my tender little arm and the nurse pierced me with a six inch instrument of torture. "Ow! That did too hurt!" I learned never to trust my mom when it came to describing pain. She was a nurse herself and any injury less than a compound fracture required no more treatment than an aspirin. Sympathy was not one of the medicines that she dispensed.
I decided that I would do better than my mom. I would always be honest with my child. The first trip to the doctor for vaccines, I told him "Son, the nurse is going to give you a shot. It is going to hurt, but you will be OK." My wide eyed son took one look at the nurse approaching him with a needle and screamed. "Don't hurt me! I don't want a shot!" And he ran to the corner of the room and curled up into a little ball. I dragged him out and tried to convince him that he would feel the least pain if he would be still and cooperate. He wasn't buying it. I ended up holding him down with his arm twisted behind his back while the nurse gave him the shot. So much for honesty.
It reminds me of other visits to the doctor for shots. When I went for shots as a kid, they lied to me. "This won't hurt a bit." So I trustingly offered up my tender little arm and the nurse pierced me with a six inch instrument of torture. "Ow! That did too hurt!" I learned never to trust my mom when it came to describing pain. She was a nurse herself and any injury less than a compound fracture required no more treatment than an aspirin. Sympathy was not one of the medicines that she dispensed.
I decided that I would do better than my mom. I would always be honest with my child. The first trip to the doctor for vaccines, I told him "Son, the nurse is going to give you a shot. It is going to hurt, but you will be OK." My wide eyed son took one look at the nurse approaching him with a needle and screamed. "Don't hurt me! I don't want a shot!" And he ran to the corner of the room and curled up into a little ball. I dragged him out and tried to convince him that he would feel the least pain if he would be still and cooperate. He wasn't buying it. I ended up holding him down with his arm twisted behind his back while the nurse gave him the shot. So much for honesty.
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