If you’ve never driven a familiar route, letting your mind wander off, singing along mindlessly and suddenly realizing, “Oh look, there’s my exit! How’d I get here so fast?” then you probably won’t relate to this post.
I’ve done that for ages. Or rather, I used to.
Then I had to move to Georgia and think about everything all the time until I developed anxiety disorder and decided my driving time would be better spent in vertigo on the edge of panic…but I digress.
In case you haven’t read me for a long time, I should let you know, when we came back from Georgia, we moved to the community my husband grew up in. My community would be included, since we attended the same high school, but my old stomping grounds are north of an interstate ramp, while where we live and where he lived are south of it.
When he lived here, in the L, he lived in a big blue house. We all call it The Big Blue House. Before his parents lived in it, his grandparents lived in it, so you can imagine it’s one of those places that holds memories. I’m not sayin that we’re all sorta attached to it, but we are. I’m not sayin we all pitched a fit when they sold it and moved to the stupid new house, but we did. I’m not sayin that Drew longs to make it her own, but I am. And I’m certainly not sayin that if we possessed too much money, we would buy it for her, but I am. If, on Fourth of July, we still park there, and walk over to talk to the
unwelcome squatter new owner, and she happens to mention she’s thinkin about sellin, we do not all simultaneously think, “Aw, that’s too bad,” and “Oh really?!?”
I could not possibly relate how much time I spent in The Big Blue House. My in-laws have been like my second set of parents for near thirty years, so that should give you an idea.
So, a lot of times I am going to the grocery, the vape shop, the park, the DQ, or the post office, and my brain, on autopilot, takes me to The Big Blue House.
I try to avoid a complicated left turn where railroad tracks meet a hill and a curve, so I turn down a smaller road and suddenly there I am, at The Big Blue House. Truly, strolled down memory lane, out of habit.
Of course, when I arrive at The Big Blue House, I realize I have no purpose there, and I grimace and drive on to my destination.
Do you drive on autopilot? Does anything like this happen to you?