Highway to Hell

The remainder of the ride was hot flash free. No trips to the gates of Hell. No walking on hot coals. No straddling the Equator.

Just cramps.

Cramps that remind you why epidurals were invented in the first place. Cramps that make you wince even though you have a rule against wincing because of the lines it will leave on your face some day. Cramps that are so distracting you miss your exit and are totally lost.

And this is where the hormonal whammy really rears its ugly head. I could not have gone more than a mile out of my way and you would have thought that my lunar space module had just become untethered from the mother ship.

My first reaction was to melt down in all the colors of the rainbow. To me, I was Lewis and Clark without Sacagawea. I have no GPS. I don't even have a map. I have no idea what town I am in. I am not really sure what the name of Scott's town is. I can feel the pit stains forming. I am seconds from calling Scott and sending up a flare when Reason taps me on the shoulder.

I take the next exit and vow to stop at the first convenience store or gas station even if it seems to be owned and operated by the nice folks featured in Deliverance.

But first, I have to try to remember where I am going (Scott's town is near...hmmmm....) and how I normally would get there (the exit by the big, big tree that is next to the billboard about the Casino...) I may actually have to call him.

And then I realize I know where I am! Or more importantly, how not to be there! I see a sign for the medical center I pass on the way to Scott's. The one I only notice because of the traffic mayhem it always causes. And I decide I can follow the blue H signs like a trail of bread crumbs all the way to where I need to be. No call to Scott necessary. No need to admit that I am really an idiot after all. My cover remains unblown for another day. There is time enough for that later.

I am so happy I am filling up with tears.

Oh no! My mascara is in deficit spending as it is!

But I can't stop. I am emotional weapons grade plutonium. Unstable and dangerous. I can barely see. And I nearly miss a blue sign.

Maybe I should call Scott. He may just want to voluntarily offer to be abducted by aliens before I get there.