It’s pretty funny because in most areas I’m a fairly capable, independent person. I don’t balk at a lot of things. Heck, I have refinished my own cabinets and stared down an angry felon in my office without (showing) fear. But last Friday (fittingly Friday the 13th) I met my match.
It started out like any other Friday except I ended up with a flat tire on my way to work. At that point I discovered that I lack the upper body strength to change my own tire. My last car had been smaller and lighter making my brother’s lesson on how to change a tire a piece of cake. The slightly newer car I have now was not going to be so obliging and I swear that those lug nuts were welded to the wheel. This was a pretty embarrassing discovery because (as I said before) I’m pretty independent and I’ll be darned if I let anyone think otherwise.
By this logic, there was no way I was going to call my dad all the way across town to come and rescue me. Not happening. So, I broke down and called for roadside assistance which seemed like the most feminist solution. That meant I had to sit and wait to be rescued but at least I was paying the man.
And guess what? The gentleman put the spare tire on for me with little effort. But not 60 seconds after I was on the road again, spare tire had failed as well! (This is how you know it was Friday the 13th.) I was forced to call roadside assistance not once but twice to be rescued in the same morning. My car and I were both taken by tow truck to the repair shop. I finally made it to work four hours later.
Now I have come to two major conclusions: it’s OK to be rescued every once in awhile AND even a superwoman has a weak point. Now I know that flat tires are my kryptonite.