The Mile Marker

I went to Harris Teeter in the middle of the afternoon on Labor Day. Silly me, I figured everyone would have done all their shopping the day before—burgers, hot dogs, beer—and that today they would be on a boat, by a pool, or gathered with friends.

I’ll pop in and right back out before the partiers stop on their way home from the festivities of the day.

Insert sound of a wrong answer on a game show here.

Because boy, was I wrong.

The store was packed. Bumper-to-bumper-on-the-beltway kind of packed.

Well, I’m here, and I’m going to get this done. I’ll take my time. I’ll smile at people and try to spread some cheer.

That lasted exactly two aisles.

Somewhere between the canned tuna and spaghetti noodles, the monkey in my head that handles the amount of personal space required around me at all times began to jump up and down.

I was penned in by carts, a couple discussing which of the ten thousand kinds of pasta sauce they felt like having for dinner, and a woman reading the back of a can of corned beef hash.

It’s a heart attack in a can, Susan! Move!

It’s never good when Claustrophobia Monkey clutches his chest and raises one hand to the sky.

I can’t go back. I can’t go forward. I can’t breathe.

Okay, Missie, you’ve got to get this under control before you are the photo in the “What’s Happening in Holly Springs” Facebook page tonight.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

It occurred to me to try an anxiety coping skill I’ve been using for the last year or so:

Just focus on the next three things.

That’s it.

Not how many people are in the ice cream aisle. Not what the checkout process will be like—you know, when the line is stretched across the main end aisle and people are trying to go left and right and get in line behind you. Then someone decides they simply must have the kumquat-flavored vitamin-and-probiotic energy drink from the little cooler to which you have attached yourself like a remora on a shark.

Just think about the next three things on the list.

Okay.

Tuna. Olive oil. Cheese Doodles.

Tuna. Olive oil. Cheese Doodles.

I bet there are a hundred people trying to pick out coffee.

No.

Tuna. Olive oil. Cheese Doodles.

Three items at a time, and before I knew it, I was at the checkout, giddy with relief.

I could see the exit!

Sometimes, that’s the trick. Don’t try to look too far ahead.

The first time I remember using some version of this trick was many years ago when I worked in insurance. The company I worked for handled open enrollment for school systems. I was told my travel would be about two weeks a month.

It was not. But that’s another story.

Starting when school began and going until school let out for summer, I traveled every week. I left on Sunday night and returned home on Friday night. I unpacked, washed my clothes, repacked, and left again.

It was brutal.

Midway through one school year, in the dead of winter, I had been working in the western part of the state. I was delayed leaving my school on Friday, and the sun had set before I even got to Raleigh.

My husband and I were arguing about something, and all I wanted was to get home and crawl in my bed.

Somewhere a little east of Raleigh on I-40, my chest began to tighten. I couldn’t breathe very well, and my vision started to narrow.

I was heading for a Level Ten Nuclear Meltdown in my car.

The tears started. The lines on the road in my headlights began to look like a kaleidoscope.

I could not have the meltdown I felt I so rightly needed then. I was driving down I-40 in the dark!

And then, in my headlights, I caught sight of a mile marker.

You know the ones—the skinny little green signs along the interstate, counting the miles toward the end of I-40.

My house was about a mile from the end of the interstate.

So I told myself I didn’t have to make it home.

I only had to make it to the next mile marker.

That was all.

Just keep watching for the next little green sign.

There was hardly any traffic heading east that winter night. It was so dark around me that I could only see as far as my headlights.

So I watched.

Just a little farther and I’ll see it.

There it is.

Relief.

Okay. Now the next one.

That’s all. Just make it to the next mile marker.

I did that from Raleigh to Wilmington that night.

One little green sign at a time.

I couldn’t see Wilmington. I certainly couldn’t see my house. Most of the time, I couldn’t see much beyond that small stretch of pavement illuminated by my headlights.

But somewhere ahead of me was another mile marker.

And when I reached it, there would be another one after that.

I think sometimes we exhaust ourselves trying to see all the way to the end of things.

Maybe we don’t always need to.

Sometimes, seeing as far as the headlights is enough.