My husband and I share a car. On some days, like when I work, I have to stumble to the Fusion and drive him to the Apple store. On these days, I don’t typically bother to dress. I mean, it’s not like I’m getting out of the car or anything, so I just go in my pajamas. Sometimes I’ll pause, and wonder, “What if I get into a wreck today and have to stand in the middle of Kingston Pike in my blue fish-print pajama pants?” but, ultimately, I decide to throw caution to the wind and leave my apartment dressed as though I’d just rolled out of bed.
As I suspected would happen eventually, my luck ran out today. I was pulling away from the mall entrance when I heard a ‘pop’ and felt something dragging where my right front tire should be. I jumped out, expecting to find that I’d run over something that needed to be cleared away, like a bottle or something. No. There was no bottle. There was, however, a blown tire. I snatched my cell phone out of the cup holder and immediately dialed my husband, who told me to drive around the mall to the tire/lube place across the parking lot from Dillard’s. He, at least, was thinking clearly. Me? I was thinking that I’d have to wait in a freezing sitting area, bra-less, with peach striped pajama pants, an old Apple shirt, and flip flops.
The tire was not salvageable. Something to do with the alignment causing wear on some certain component that had finally had enough; I forgot the specifics almost as soon as he told me. The thing I did remember…all four tires need to be replaced. Travis–I remember his name, even if I don’t remember what caused my tire to pop–gave me an estimate on replacing all four, and it was enough to make me laugh out loud. “I’ll have to do it one at a time, I’m afraid,” I told him. He stared at my bra-less boobs when I laughed, and it made me hate him a little.
The actual tire replacement took about twenty minutes, during which I crossed my arms over my chest and half-watched an episode of Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader? (For those of you wondering, I am indeed smarter than a 5th grader, for I knew the Roman name for the Greek god Dionysus.) I would have been out after the initial twenty minutes, but Travis failed to tell me that the replacement had been completed, and I sat in the ice-cold waiting area for an additional hour. After losing my patience, I stormed to the desk and demanded to know when my car would be ready. “Oh, it’s done,” he said. I whipped out my debit card and paid $86.66, wondering if the tire’s inner-workings were plated in solid gold. Hopefully I’ll never see them.
Driving home was nerve-wracking, as I was afraid one of the other tires–particularly the left front, which he said was on borrowed time–would blow. I made it off the freeway and onto the winding roads to my apartment and felt confident that I would make it home safely. I learned several lessons today. 1. Wear a bra. 2. Brush your teeth and your hair. 3. Make sure your pajamas are at least cute, lest you be stranded in them.
