"You are off route," the monotone voice said.
"You are off route," it repeated.
I glanced around and wondered how it was possible I was off route when there hadn't been a single cross road or exit for miles. Glancing down at the GPS, I realized it had been smoking crack in between downing bottles of crazy pills. According to the GPS, I was sitting smack dab in the middle of a golf course.
Except, I wasn't. I was smack dab in the middle of a freeway, driving 55 mph as other cars zipped past me.
I smacked at the GPS a few times to shut it up and hoped it would get a clue before I reached the portion of the journey that I actually needed help with. Of course, it didn't. I wondered aloud to Alexis why we even ask the GPS for directions when it is so frequently wrong.
She wondered why we ask the GPS when it is so clearly lacking in manners. It drives the poor kid absolutely insane that the GPS doesn't say "Please" and "Thank you" as it bosses you around. Alexis doesn't have to worry about turning into her mom in 30 years; she's already there. Together we shall nag the universe into having good manners. Just call us the Please Police.
Alexis continued on to ask if the GPS was smart. I responded by saying that it was sort of the expert on how to get places.
And then I thought about it some more. I realized the GPS is a lot like every other kind of expert there is. Parenting experts . . . social media experts . . . all experts . . . they're quick to give you advice, often being bossy and rude as they do it, but they don't always really know what they're talking about. Unless that expert is in your shoes, seeing all the things you see, they sometimes can't tell the difference between a golf course and a freeway.
Screw the experts.