Lost in Tennessee: Honeymoon Madness

Lost in Tennessee: Honeymoon Madness 

I hate being lost. I mean, truly, deeply despise it. The mere thought of being off course makes my brain short-circuit. It’s not just an inconvenience, a sheer, visceral panic sets in. It’s as though the entire universe mocks me. Road signs feel deliberately vague, intersections multiply out of nowhere, and every attempt to reorient myself only seems to make things worse. My brain doesn’t interpret being lost as a minor hiccup; it sees it as a full-blown existential crisis. 

My husband, Wes, discovered this about me the hard way—on our honeymoon. 

The plan was simple: take a long, rambling drive from western Pennsylvania to Louisiana, enjoying the open road and all its charming detours. For a while, everything was smooth sailing. We cruised through state after state, laughing, talking, and basking in the glow of newlywed bliss. That is, until we hit Tennessee. 

Somewhere in the middle of the very large Volunteer State, I started to feel… uneasy. You know that creeping sensation, like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon? I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were driving due west—or worse, north. Don’t ask me why; it’s not like I had any frame of reference, because logically, our atlas was buried in the trunk.  

I tried to stay calm, but eventually, the knot in my stomach became impossible to ignore. “Honey,” I said, with the forced casualness of a person teetering on the edge of a meltdown, “maybe we should stop at a gas station to grab a Tennessee map.” 

Wes, of course, had no such sense of impending doom. He was happy as a clam, tapping the steering wheel to a tune only he could hear, completely at peace within his universe. In moments like these, Wes is the human embodiment of a golden retriever—relaxed, easygoing, and perpetually happy. Even if we were hopelessly lost, he’d approach the situation like a retriever in a new park: sniffing around, wagging his tail, and eventually wandering in a new direction without a care in the world. No map? No problem! He’d just trot along, confident that somehow, some way, everything would work itself out. To him, the journey itself was the adventure, and minor details—like knowing where we were—part of the fun. 

Meanwhile, I was internally combusting, convinced we were barreling toward disaster. “Wes,” I said, with a growing intensity and deepening voice, “WE. ARE. LOST.” 

“We’re not lost.” he said, his voice dripping with incredulity, as though I’d just suggested we buy beachfront property in Malibu. “I know exactly where I am.” 

Snap!  

“You DO NOT know where we are!” I declared, gesturing wildly at the Tennessee darkness. “You’ve never been here before! You don’t know where you’re going! It’s the middle of the night! You’re driving blindfolded!” 

Wes, to his credit, said nothing. He just watched me unravel, and wondered what kind of lunatic he’d married. 

After what felt like an eternity, we finally pulled into a dimly-lit gas station to unearth the atlas. Sure enough, we’d taken a wrong turn about 50 miles back. The ride back to the right road was… silent. Not the peaceful, companionable silence of two people in love, but the tense, charged silence of a man who knows better than to poke the bear. By the time we hit Georgia, my madness ebbed, and when the absurdity of the whole situation began to sank in, we both started laughing. 

Looking back, I realize that moment was a defining one in our marriage. It set the tone for all the times we’d veer off course—literally or figuratively—and find our way back together, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. 

But still, I hate being lost. Really, really hate it.