Walking While Reading

Nobody that knows me would ever ask, “Where are we?”

That’s because I’m famous for having no idea. It doesn’t take me very long in a strange city to lose track of where I am. A left here, followed by a right there, and then turn again at the taqueria. I’m lost.

K, on the other hand, is good at finding her way to and from wherever she is. I know how she does that. She pays attention to where she’s going. She takes note of little landmarks – a red door, a cigar store on a corner, a car parked backwards.

I’ve always thought that a sense of direction was innate. That there was something in one’s gene pool attuned to noticing and remembering details to get back to the safety of home – i.e., to survive.

But I’ve recently developed a new theory.

Last week, a very old friend was recalling how, when we were in high school, he had a game he played to amuse himself – mentally scoring the attractiveness of our female classmates as they passed by in the corridors between classes.

It occurred to me that I had never done that. I could never have done that. Why?

Because I always had my nose tucked into a book.

I wasn’t a good student. I did no homework, and I didn’t pay attention in class. But I intended to graduate without being “left back,” and so I prepped by speed-reading the prior day’s homework assignment on the way to each class.

This became a habit, one that continued in college. And even now, walking without reading feels like I’m wasting my time.

Though I have come to understand the value of being in the here and now and paying attention to where I’m going, there is one ironic exception. When I’m driving a car, I tend to pay most of my attention to the things around me – the houses and stores and people on the sidewalks – and only occasionally look back to the road in front of me to make sure I’m not about to ram into something.

That is why my family has decided that there will be only one of two options for the next car they will let me buy. It will be either a super-advanced electric vehicle that drives itself perfectly safely or a 20- to 30-year-old pickup truck with every bumper and fender already dented in.

Which brings me to my new theory…

I no longer assume that a sense of direction is something that lucky people are born with. It’s more likely that everyone is born with that potential – but if one spends enough years with one’s nose in a book, that sense will wither and die.