Lawyering Through Life

Blow out

“The only times I really wish I had a boyfriend? When I am moving or my car breaks down.”

Red said this to me a few years ago while we were in the process of carrying (okay, pushing, OKAY…dragging) her large sofa down the hallway of her apartment complex. It was a fit of human strength to hoist it into the elevator only to have it take it out ONE FLOOR UP. Yes, the old “moving on up” move that is a huge gargantuan pain in the ass.

But, I digress. Red is incredibly independent – she has tons of friends, she functions quite well on her own, has a full social calendar – a lot like myself actually. But yet those two times in life are the times when being alone and being a girl can really stink.

Tonight, as I cruised home from the gym, patting myself on the back for actually going and picturing a frozen pizza, I heard a loud THUMP (sorry for the use of caps tonight, yall) and the thumping continued and my car, all of a sudden, felt very weird. Now, most of you have probably figured out that I blew a tire, but I honestly thought my muffler had fallen off.

Quick aside that demonstrates how I am not so good with the cars. On the way to work one morning, I noticed my car sounded awful as I merged onto the highway. I couldn’t make my car go fast, really, it just sounded as if it was in pain. I freaked out the entire 25 minute ride to work and then eventually made it in to work. I called Cheeky Co-worker who was on vacation in full scale panic mode. He recommended an auto mechanic across the street from the courthouse so I called. The mechanic got on the line and I described the problem. I said, “I don’t know, it sounded like a transmission problem.” Go ahead; ask me if I even know what the transmission does. Or where it is – the front? I don’t know. But it sounds car-smart, right? He asks what type of car I drive. I tell him and he then asks if my car is automatic. Err…it is regular? Apparently in girlspeak, that means yes it is automatic. I think? Oh, I looked it up and that is right. He manages not to laugh in my face after the “regular” comment and he asks me if I am sure I had my car in the right gear when I got on the highway. I pause and then finally admit that no, I can’t confirm that I checked what gear I was in but really, it couldn’t be something that simple? I mean, I am not that dumb, am I? Rather than answer, he tells me to bring my car by and he will call after looking into the problem. About an hour after I drop it off, he calls. He’s run some tests, driven it around, looked under the hood…he is clearly not wanting to tell me just how dumb I am. I tell you this to give you some context as to why I am utterly horrible about anything car-related. Car trouble renders me helpless.

So, picture Helpless Jersey, freaking out as I try to cross four lanes of Highway 66 traffic and make it to the shoulder before my car blows up because that is literally what I am thinking is about to transpire. I make it to the shoulder, take a few deep breaths, open the door just wide enough to confirm my rear tire is indeed flat, and call Sister in panic. Because if you can’t make your boyfriend come pick you up on the side of the road, you can at least make family, right? She reminds me of my handy Triple A membership (Thank you, Mr. Jersey for recognizing that if there is one thing your daughter will also need is someone to bail her out of a car crisis!). I climb over to the passenger side of my car, because it somehow feels safer than the driver’s side since cars are roaring past me at speeds in excess of 65 MPH. I explained the situation to the very nice operator – I handle all of his questions with ease. I give him an exit number! And a distance from that exit! I give him the direction I was headed! I give him my car’s make and model! I explain I do not have a spare but something called a donut! I am totally in control, I think to myself, completely pressed up against the passenger door, until he asks me if my tires have interlocking lug nuts. Come again? He says “basically do you have anything fancy on your car, like rims, that would make it hard to remove the tire?” Gotcha – nope, no interlocking lug nuts to worry about.

While he is explaining that my estimated wait time is an hour and fifteen minutes, there is a knock on my car window. I scream, and now have to explain to the Triple A Operator that I am fine, totally fine, just someone stopping to help, Oh he looks like Highway Patrol and not an axe murderer, yep his vehicle looks official, Okay, I will call you back, Mr. Triple A Operator.
And since I survived the whole experience to write about it, you can rest assured that it was NOT an axe murderer but an actual highway patrol person who wanted to know if I was okay. I pointed to the flat tire and he said, “Well, I can change that if you have a spare.” And so he did. The whole ordeal really only set my drive home back about ten minutes.

The only downside is the now imminent purchase of a new tire. I had planned some very fun things for my weekend - Seeing a Journey cover band! Shopping at a sidewalk sale! Running six miles! Taking my dry cleaning! (okay, yeah, that’s no fun) but now, I will be buying a tire.

Oh, and I continue to wish I had a boyfriend to deal with the fall out. Guys are inherently born with knowledge about car parts. Guys can talk intelligently about tires the way I talk about shoes. And even though I wouldn’t trade my knowledge about shoes, I could use a little more tread know-how.

posted by jersey @ 10:38 PM