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Until last Wednesday, I’d never driven to Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. I have plenty of practice getting to and from Dulles, but Reagan? Isn’t that kinda far away? And doesn’t getting there involve lots of — eek! — highways? And, honestly, since it is and it does, isn’t such a trip the perfect excuse to call an Uber?
Should have called an Uber.
Mr. Lucky and I loaded our stuff in the car, put the destination in Waze, and took off — early — for the airport. Things were going well. I was only slightly sweating with anxiety, Mr. Lucky’s motor mouth had yet to kick in, and the Waze lady was happily barking directions.
Note the word happily.
We were on 66 East and, since Mr. Lucky has an EZ Pass, I decided to take the express lane. Why? Why? I hate highways, why in God’s name would I choose to drive even faster on one? Why? Because recently I’d been on the express lane with Rob. He was driving. It looked so easy!
Ha.
At first, it’s was ok. Pretty cool, even. We were moving along at a great clip, there were far fewer vehicles around us scaring the daylights out of me, and both of us were like, “Oh yeah, we’ve got this! Reagan Airport is our bitch, baby! Let’s put some music on!”
And then the Waze lady started stroking out.
“In 500 feet, turn left.”
Mr. Lucky grabbed the phone, looked at it, looked at me. “Turn left? If we turn left we’ll hit the railing!”
“She probably just needs to catch up,” I replied, my slightly sweaty status rising a notch. “Let’s give her a second.”
Mr. Lucky continued staring at the phone. “She’s not catching up, mom.”
Indeed, she was not.
In half a mile turn left.
At the light, turn left on to Whatever the Hell Street.
In 1000 feet, turn left.
Turn left. Turn left. Turn left!!!
I thought the poor Waze lady was going to need a respirator. And I was going to join her.
There was no way to turn left and there were definitely no lights. The sweat was pouring down the back of my neck. I can get on the express lane. I just don’t know how to get off the express lane.
And, according to Mr. Lucky, who was by then also pretty highly agitated, that’s what we needed to do.
I have to hand it to my kid, despite his own anxiety, he guided us off the express lane. If not for him, we’d still be on it.
So, we got off the express lane. Now all we needed was for the Waze lady to catch up and save us from driving to New Jersey. Or Connecticut. Or wherever we were headed because I was certain it wasn’t the airport.
“What do I do?” I asked my navigator, aka, Mr. Lucky.
“Just go straight,” he replied, staring at the phone, willing the Waze lady to stop her panicking and catch up for God’s sake.
Well, that’s what I was doing. He was just looking intently at the phone.
I drove straight. Slowly. Very slowly. I mean, at any moment the Waze lady was finally going to bark directions and I wanted to be ready. We had to be at the airport by 10 a.m. I tried not to think about being late, missing our flight, all that stuff. Mostly I tried not to think, “Oh my God, where do we park the car? I’ve never been to this place! What if we finally get there and I can’t figure it out?” Little details like finding the right lot and then remembering what building, floor number, etc., we parked on, are not my strong suit.
Suffice it to say I was soaked in sweat by this point.
Still, Mr. Lucky stared at the phone. And maneuvered it. He was touching the map. Touching it! No no. We don’t touch the map! We drive mindlessly, and wait, for the Waze lady to speak!
Suddenly, Mr. Lucky speaks. “In a quarter mile we need to turn right on Whatever the Hell Street.”
“Are you su—” I start, only to have the Waze lady cut me off and say just what Mr. Lucky said.
“You’re ahead of her,” I say, surprised. And relieved. And really proud. And really, profoundly, relieved. But I’ve already said that.
“Just following the map, mom,” he replied, rolling his eyes.
That’s how it went for the rest of the ride. My son giving me directions, followed by the Waze lady (who no longer sounded as if she was having a stroke), repeating them a few seconds later
Mr. Lucky always blows me away.
And the Waze lady should start looking for a job.
Thank you for taking this long, strange trip with me. I appreciate your support and your many comments and emails. If you’d like to read parts 1-63, you can do so here.
This is why I don't drive....