When You’re a Dora

I don’t know when my mind decided that living in the clouds and chasing curiosity was better than staying grounded in the real world — but such as it is, that’s me.

My family knows. They’ve come up with “solutions” that haven’t been tested: leash me like a toddler, or put my grandson in charge. He’s steady: “We’re going this way, Mima.” But the minute something catches his eye, I’m gone. “Where’s Mima?” echoes down the trail.

Like the time we went hiking in the canyon. Natalie and Cortland were walking ahead, talking, when they turned around and realized I’d disappeared. Cortland had to backtrack until he found me wandering off. “Come on, Mema Dora.” The nickname stuck.

Or with Ron, when I was supposed to be the navigator. “Where are we going?” he’d ask. “I don’t know,” I’d say, “I think it’s that way.” Somehow, despite my detours, we always arrived.

Or shopping with Natalie, when something shiny pulled me toward a store window. She was two shops ahead before she noticed I was missing. Back she came, shaking her head. “Mom, where are you going?” My answer: “Just curious.”

Or the concert, where everyone else followed the signs to their seats. Not me. I followed the people with popcorn. “Where are you going?” they asked. I shrugged. “With the popcorn.”

And it doesn’t stop out in the world. Around the dinner table with friends, the conversation can be flowing perfectly — then I’ll toss in something from left field. Everyone pauses. “That’s not what we’re talking about, Dora.”

That’s me. A Dora. A wanderer of trails, malls, concert halls, and even conversations. My family may shake their heads, but secretly, I think they love it.

Because when you’re a Dora, you never quite know where you’ll end up. But you’ll always have a story when you get there.