My parents insist that I was a wonderful baby, but I know they are lying or suffering that special amnesia that makes the past look beautiful. Anytime I needed to sleep, they took me for a ride in the car until I fell asleep. It must have happened a LOT. Many decades later, I get in a moving vehicle and immediately start to nod off. When you combine my genetic “no sense of direction” disorder with my cars are for sleeping training, you get a bad, bad driver. Tomorrow morning, Doug is going to get a haircut and manicure from a beautiful, scantily clad girl. I am going to drive two hours north into unfamiliar territory. When I call Doug, hysterical that I am hopelessly lost, he will be too distracted to put together a coherent sentence. No. I won’t be calling Doug. There probably won’t be a phone signal on the TN/KY border. When I finally arrive at my destination, Tommy will disappear for several hours of normal 17-year-old activities. I will take photographs go shopping sleep in the van or look for an unattended computer. You would think the trip home would be an easy reversal of the trip there, but to the directionally impaired, it’s all just one long, unfamiliar maze. “I think I’m supposed to turn here.”