Flat Tire Promiscuity

The life I lead is too interesting. Really. I have more stories that a dog has fleas. What? Your dog is clean, happy, and flealess? Well...my metaphorical dog is teeming with fleas. Just teeming.

I was returning from Dallas. My trip there was blissfully nice. Sufjan sang to me. Ira analyzed the world for me. Ah, c'est la vie.

Before hitting the road, I stopped and got a large lemonade from Chik-Fil-A. Ah, I could drink CFA Lemonade all day every day. Is it lemonaid or lemonade? No matter. I drank happily.

My goal was to get to 35 before everyone else did and for the most part I succeeded. Yes! I thought. Take THAT Dallas traffic!!

Then, the god of Dallas traffic look on my haughty soul and called down from heaven punishment befitting of my hubris.

A truck tipped over. Now, I don't know if you have ever waited for a truck to be untipped over, but it takes a while.

Now, imagine that you just drank a large, light-on-the-ice lemonade an hour before.

And you are just sitting there...

And sitting there...

Sitting...

There...

Do you have to pee? Well, I sure did. I sat on my heel. I took off my belt. I thought dry thoughts. (Oh, did I mention it was raining?).

And, all the while, the god of Dallas Traffic laughed uproariously. Ah me and my egregious hubris!!

Anyway, two-but-what-seemed-like-ten hours later, I have seen the truck be unflipped over and am merrily out of Dallas. I stop for gas and grab some Cheezits (dinner of champions). All is well.

It is now 8pm. It is raining cats and dogs. Not literally. I have just finished talking with an old friend who is getting her masters at Johns Hopkins. I was listening to Ingrid Michaelson. I was planning a blog post about taking pride in your calling and how one should not feel bad if one is teaching high school in Oklahoma when one's schoolmates are getting their masters at Johns Hopkins.

Thunk. My spider senses sense something slightly off. Thunk. My sympathetic nervous system kicks in THUNK, thu-thu-thunk. The wheel starts shaking violently.

I had a burst of many thoughts. This was the order: Aliens! Bomb! QUAKENADO! Psychotic Breakdown! Flat Tire!

Indeed, my last (but not necessarily the most logical) thought was correct.

I swerve deftly (is that an oxymoron?) into the upcoming exit lane and get off the interstate.

It is pouring rain.

Down the street is a Conoco. I can see it. Half mile tops.

I try to get there, but I am all rim.

Sighing at the dry oasis, I step out into the pouring rain.

Now, there are a few things that make this really poetic. 1) It is cold and wet, which are 2 of my 3 least favorite tactile sensations (sticky is #1). 2) It is pitch black and storming. 3) And the quaint little patch of road where my car determined to die had a good 5 inches of water in it already just waiting for me to splash around in.

Fun Times.

I change my tire. I wish I could say this was my first time. Or my second. Or my third. If I am counting correctly, this is the eleventh time I have changed/help change my tire. Let's face it. I am promiscuous when it comes to tires. I need help.

Anyway, please remember that I took of my belt due to the recent Bladderpocalypse and also please note that I have been working out so I have lost weight.

Yep, my pants kept falling down while changing this tire.

Flat Tire Promiscuity at its max, people. I need help.

After I get the spare on, I go to the aforementioned gas station dripping wet.

The gas station attendant who just finished mopping the floor looks at me and says, "You are dripping wet."

Observant little devil.

I ask him if he wouldn't mind checking my tire's bolts. He raises an eyebrow. He directs me to yonder tire shop.

I drip my way out.

The tire shop would have been the perfect scene for a murder moving. Large 18 wheelers loom ominously around. Flickering light. Awkward buzzing noise. I get out and eerily call hello.

The response was perfect. "Well, hello there, Cutie Pie." Which was funny because I was dripping wet (see gas station attention) and I was having to hold up my pants.

Now, I was expecting the voice to belong to a hook-armed man. He was going to have a limp and a cigarette. Oh, and he was going to kill me.

As he emerged from the shadows, I discovered two of those four guesses were right. I'll let you wonder as to which.

Anyway, he went to re-tighten my tire, tried, and declared, "D#$% girl! You a bad-a$%." I took that to mean, "My dear young lady, you have successfully and impressively tightened the bolts sufficiently. Kudos and Brava!"

He then directed me to the 18 Wheeler side of the gas station for air, because the other air box was broken. So, I pulled up next to an 18 wheeler and tried to look tough in my Toyota Corolla. I think I pulled it off. As I held up my pants.

The last two hours of my journey was blissfully uneventful. I talked to my boy, to my other friend who is getting her PhD at Harvard, to a fellow teacher, and to my sister's answering machine. Ingrid Michaelson sang about being okay and the world spun madly on.

And, somewhere, high above me, the god of Dallas Traffic laughed uproariously.