MICKI BARE Advertisement

The minute you think you know what you're doing and understand how the world works, everything will change. It's as if the universe is compelled to continually challenge, and annoy humankind.

Atlanta is one of my favorite cities. I like to think of it as a more manageable New York City. It has all the culture, sports, graffiti and litter set beneath a beautiful picturesque skyline, but all on a smaller scale.

On a recent trip to the Southern city, someone in our group needed to head out to Lenox Mall to run an errand. Feeling confident in my abilities to hop on the subway and head up town, I readily volunteered to make the trip.

I changed into my sneakers, grabbed my purse and pranced to Peachtree Station. The first thing I needed to do was purchase a token. I had some cash and was ready to feed the machine. But on approach, I noticed that the machine took debit and credit cards. Nice new feature, I thought.

Then I swiped my debit card. Nothing happened. I read the instructions. The new token machines did not dispense tokens. They dispensed flimsy cardboard swipe-cards. I had to choose the number of trips I wanted loaded on my card, and then pay an additional fee for the flimsy card.

I was unable to get the machine to print a receipt, but I did manage to purchase a roundtrip Marta card. However, it did not have a black magnetic strip on it. Surely that machine saw me coming a mile away, noted I was from out of town, and took advantage.

I went ahead and swiped the card anyway, figuring the attendant witnessed me struggling with the card dispensing machine and knew that I did indeed pay for the subway ride. But, to my surprise, the gate opened. The flimsy, magnetic-stripless card actually worked. It was magical!

Getting out of the station in Buckhead was not as easy. In the past, all I had to do was walk through the one-way gate and I was on my way to the mall. So I walked toward the gate barely aware of the attendant to my left yelling at me.

People on either side were exiting without incident. My body slammed into the gate and bounced off like a blob of dried glue against the wall in fourth grade art class. That's when my ears picked up on the attendant's voice, "Tap the dot! Tap the dot!"

It made no sense. What did she mean? Was 'tap the dot' code for something? Was it Atlanta lingo for stupid tourists that can't negotiate through an exit gate?

Finally, my eyes caught the big blue dot with bold yellow writing on the arm of the exit gate. The writing instructed travelers to tap their Marta card on the dot to open the exit gate. As everything began to make sense and I became subway-travel enlightened, I rummaged through my purse and pulled out the flimsy card.

Re-approaching the exit, I tapped my card on the dot and the exit gate magically opened, freeing me at last to complete my errand at the mall. The attendant smiled. Commuters continued to ignore me as they went about their business, easily passing in and out of the subway station while talking on cell phones and balancing brief cases. I smiled at the attendant and all the commuters as I headed toward the street.

After accomplishing my task at the mall, I apprehensively made my way back to the hotel in downtown Atlanta. The return trip was uneventful, although riding back I could feel bruises emerging on my arm, leg and rib cage courtesy of my earlier encounter with the exit gate.

Weeks later, safely back in my world where everything is familiar and routine, the universe struck yet again. I am the one who receives email on my PDA cell phone, travels thousands of miles each year to meetings, negotiates contracts and otherwise participates in the professional rat race on a daily basis.

Hubby, who works diligently in the public schools and attends night school, graciously and efficiently keeps up with the status of the laundry and the kids' schedules, picking up this child here and dropping off that child there. I help, of course.

But this week, Hubby was struck with the flu and I had to grab the domestic reins. My kids are buying lunch, wearing wrinkly shirts and texting me reminders for when and where to pick them up.

Meanwhile, I can make out the faint sounds of Hubby, bundled in blankets sipping honey and lemon juice laced tea, declaring, 'Tap the dot!' He makes it sound so easy.

Micki Bare is a columnist for the Arkansas News Bureau and the Courier-Tribune in Asheboro, N.C., and author of the book, "Relative Expressions." She lives in Asheboro with her husband and three children. Her e-mail address is mickibare@inspiredscribe.com.