by Laura Owens

Created on: May 27, 2008

Spatial Relations.

I'm so directionally challenged that even my soft spoken GPS lady can tick me off and steer me wrong, and she's programmed for a high rate of user success. I walk in circles looking for my car in crowded parking lots. I take wrong turns on streets I've traveled for decades. But the upside to getting chronically lost is I've learned to be less self-conscious about such trivial failings.

The truth is, no one really cares much that I'm bumbling around the mall parking lot looking confused, unless I want them to care. And if I want them to care, I just ask for help. I've decided that lacking a sense of direction isn't so important because you can get by with being mediocre in this area, as long as your character and integrity aren't mediocre. People will help you find your way as long as you're nice to them.

I cry when I'm on the road for too long if I've headed east for ten miles when I should have headed north, especially if someone or something is waiting for me to show up. Getting to a destination is an intense affair that most people take for granted. I have to scout the place a week or an hour in advance depending on how important it is that I arrive on time.

I get worked up when I forget to mentally mark my parking space at the mall, airport or gym. I end up pretending I'm deliberately walking that slowly because unlike the rest of the world, I know how to relax. I pray that I exit the mall the same way I entered, or else I get exponentially turned around. Spatial disorientation generally affects airplane pilots who fly dark cloudy skies, not customers who walk out of Macys at 2 in the afternoon.

If someone does notice me scaling the parking lot aisles, they probably don't buy into my "I'm doing this on purpose" swagger. Lost people sweat more and appear anxious and have a weird strained smile. Our pattern is easily recognizable: we walk down each row, stop, scan, repeat. When we locate our car we're happier than anyone has a right to be with keys in hand. I usually let out a loud, irritated "Oh there you are!" as if I found my husband in the men's department at Sears. Only I'm lambasting a lifeless SUV, not someone trying on ties. The prize at the end of my car search is great relief. I'm no longer a pitiful, clueless, confused, and lonely wanderer. That in itself can feel like a reward for the day.

I have searching strategies. My first line of defense is to look for visual cues and to avoid panicking. My second is to locate my car before

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