Dial T for Tracey

Last week, I got my hair cut. My stylist recently moved locations and I now have to park in an unfamiliar garage. Believe it or not, I find this nerve wracking. As you may know from a recent post, I am of the directionally challenged tribe. No directions make sense to me. I must be told how to drive somewhere by the landmarks I might see, not cardinal directions. 

"Get on the highway like you're going to school," my dad used to tell me to get me on the highway going in the right direction.

My stylist asks me after every cut, "Which way are going to turn when you get out of the garage?"

"To the right," I reply with raised eyebrows.

"Right!" she exclaims. I always feel like I should get a sticker after answering correctly.

BUT... the elevators in the parking garage are funky. Not all the elevators go to all the floors. WHY?!?! Why would someone engineer it this way? 

When I got to the lobby, I pressed the down button and one of the "bad" elevators opened it's door. I let the doors close and waited a few minutes and pressed the down button again. The same elevator opened.

"No," I groaned. I tried this two more times all to have the same elevator open. I then tried getting on, pushing buttons, not getting off, and going back up to the lobby. I stepped off the elevator, waited a few minutes and pressed the down button again. Yep, the same elevator opened. At this point, I was getting frustrated and frazzled. 

I had noticed that the "bad" elevator had a button marked with an M. I thought, "What the hell, I'll try it."

It put me on P2. I needed P1. How does M equal P2? How? 

I thought, "I give up." I called Tracey.

"I can't get to the right floor in the parking garage!" I whined to Tracey as soon as she picked up the phone. "I've tried and tried. I can't do it!"

"Wait, what?" Tracey said, "Where are you?"

"I'm in the PARKING GARAGE!" I whisper yelled (no telling who was around).

"Umm..." Tracey started.

"I go up in the elevator, I go down in the elevator, I get off the elevator, I get in the elevator." I think I was wailing now. "It doesn't matter. It's the 'bad' elevator, I can't get to the right floor!"

"What floor are you on?" Tracey asked (I don't think for the first time.)

"P2," I said taking a deep breath.

"And what floor do you need?" Tracey asked patiently.

"P1." I moaned.

"Well... what about the stairs?" Tracey asked.

"The stairs?" I parroted back to her.

"Yes, the stairs, aren't there stairs by the elevator?" she asked again.

"The stairs?" I asked again.

"Yes, the stairs." Tracey emphasized the word stairs. "Usually there are stairs near the elevators. Look for them." Tracey directed me as you would a 5 year old.

"You want me to walk up the stairs?" I questioned. There were a few moments of silence.

"Uh... well yes," Tracey replied, " It doesn't seem like a terribly unreasonable request." 

"Oh, ok," I said with chagrin, "I'll walk up the stairs."

I walked up the stairs to P1... and there was my car. Right where I left it.