Today I headed out to the dentist for a routine cleaning to be done by the charming Yolanda, whose bark is thankfully much worse than her bite. (I do sometimes wonder if one of the character traits required for dental hygienists and their bosses is mild sadism, but anyway…). I missed the freeway exit. I have no idea why this happened; I suddenly realized it as I saw the next sign. “Why am I seeing a sign for University Ave.,” I asked myself. Fortunately, there are surface streets to get from where I was to where I wanted to go. (The first time I ever heard the phrase “surface streets” was in L.A. about 15 years ago; given the number of freeways there, I suppose that makes sense. It’s a useful phrase, I’ve decided).

This reminded me of the last time I missed an exit in this distracted sort of way. I was 16, and I’d just gotten my driver’s license. My dad was recovering from a hernia operation at Bethesda Naval Hospital (in those days they held you for three days before releasing you; when I had a similar operation a few years ago it was an outpatient procedure), and I was detailed to go pick him up. This involved driving around the Beltway in D.C. from the Virginia side to the Maryland side of the District, finding the correct exit, and then getting to the hospital. Damned if I didn’t miss the exit, and, being the inexperienced driver that I was, I drove all the way around the Beltway to try to find it again. I was thus about two hours late getting there. Do I need to say my father was pretty angry?