You may recall just how horrible I am with directions and that I am the queen of getting lost. So it’s probably no surprise then that driving in downtown Chicago generally scares the Hanky Pankies right off me. We live out in the burbs, so when I get downtown in the middle of all those big ass buildings, all the streets look just the same to me. And the cabbies? They drive like they’re playing bumper cars on the Indy 500 track. That’s why I was a wee bit concerned when I found out that I had to drive down and pick up my husband from his knee surgery yesterday morning.
Surprisingly, I was able to find the surgery center without any major issues. The parking garage, however, was a whole other story. It was like I’d entered a black hole of parked cars. I mean, really, why must they make those things so damn confusing?! I could NOT find my way out of that garage and into the proper office building for anything in this world. And unfortunately, I somehow managed to weave my way throughout every friggin’ floor of that mind-boggling structure of concrete.
At one point, I ended up in the damn condominium side of the building and even had a personal escort back towards the direction in which I needed to be going. And believe it or not, that STILL didn’t put me back on the right track. I then found myself entering the ground floor 7-Eleven of all frickin’ things. The barely audible cashier was kind enough to redirect me, only to lead me to a section marked “Employees Only” for the maintenance staff of the building. I’m pretty sure there were some cackles and eye rolling going on as I once again tucked my tail between my legs and retraced my clueless footsteps. Really, would it have killed these people to put up some damn maps to tell me where the hell I was for crap’s sakes?!
I was starting to wonder if my poor husband was gonna have to hitchhike his way back home after his surgery, when I FINALLY stumbled onto the actual surgery center office. Halle-freakin’-lujah! I was so relieved to be in the correct location after winding my way through that endless maze of confusion. I was barely able to even catch my breath before my husband was wheeled out of surgery and I was sent back to the recovery area with him. And I felt like crying when they told me to pull the car around and wait for him to be brought down by wheelchair. They clearly didn’t realize that I’d wound around the depths of HELL in order to get there in the first friggin’ place.
After some very careful backtracking, I miraculously found my way back to the car. (Seriously, I think I deserve an award or something for that heroic feat.) And when I pulled around to wait for my husband, I about peed my pants when someone out on the street approached ME of all people to ask for directions. I literally laughed out loud as I told the woman, “You are asking the WRONG person, lady!” Asking me to help you find your way is like asking Lindsay Lohan to teach you good manners.