GPS receivers make me an emasculated idiot. I used one recently on a trip to Seattle and had several near-mishaps because of the thing. I nearly drove my rented minivan into several vehicles, up a service ramp, exited a parking lot going the wrong way on a one-way street and nearly missed ramming my vehicle into Nordstrom—the actual structure.
I must be too literal of a person because when that soothing woman’s voice (I call her Claire. Reminds me of a sweet British nanny who’s only here to serve me) coming from the gadget tells me to turn left, then I’m going to turn left. NOW. There’s a scene from an episode of last season’s The Office where the hapless boss Michael Scott drives into a lake because his GPS was telling him to turn. I thought it was an absurd scene but now I get it. At some point I realized I was no longer looking for signs or landmarks but rather staring at the tiny digital map for navigational clues. It was like cheating on a test and I LOVED IT!
But after a few wrong turns and bathroom exits I wanted to strangle Claire. She wasn’t so soothing anymore. The word recalculating never sounded so arrogant and condescending. I know what you’re saying Claire. I made a wrong turn and you’re having to go back and figure out a way to get me out of this mess. I’m pretty sure I heard her sigh after the fourth or fifth wrong turn, as if to say, “Here we go again. I’ve done all the work for you and continue to get it wrong. You’re doing this to yourself, you know.” Pompous Brit.
If a gadget company wants me to buy their GPS unit, they need to do something about the little voice inside spewing out directions. Give us some options. For instance, who wouldn’t want Sam Elliot telling you how to get home? I’d respect that voice. Plus it would feel like maybe we’re on horses riding through the prairie. Or maybe Luanne from King of the Hill. That way if you get lost she would blame herself. Or Robert DiNero. I’d simply do everything he said and not ask questions, even if the directions included knocking off someone on the way to the mall. Just do what he says and no one will get hurt.
But Claire? By the time I got to my destination, she had me so flustered and emasculated that that I was craving a soy chai latte while discussing my favorite era of Meg Ryan haircuts. It took three hours lifting weights and a rare T-bone just to shake the effects.
No wonder men don’t ask for directions.
(rw)
As per usual, today's entry is part of Watercooler Wednesday over at ETHOS.


