Donuts and Potholes
Limping slowly to the nearest parkinglot. Empty the trunk. Pull out the little round donut spare. Pull out the jack. I hate this jack. I also hate the tire iron. It's not really a tire iron - its' this tube thingy with a hinge. I don't know where to put the jack.
Scoot into the building. Ask the 2 guys who are ripping wallpaper off the walls if I can borrow a phone - I got a flat. Kind, kind, young man. Lets me use his cell, then tells me HE will change the tire.
Ok, 99.9999999% of the time I'm independent and damn proud of it. Only 2 things really are beyond me. 1) flipping the Hinkley & Schmidt water bottle on the water cooler, and 2) changing a flat tire.
Oh I know the concept of changing a flat. And I USED to flip the water bottle myself all the time - until my back went wonky. But the actual REALITY of changing a flat tire is somewhat beyond me.
Which isn't the worst thing in the world, I suppose. The lug nuts had been put on with one of those air-powered high-torque wrench guns at the tire shop a couple years ago and the kind young man kinda bent up and broke the stupid not-really-a-tire-iron. Fortunately, his compadre had a REAL steel tire iron, so the little donut spare is on my car, the flat is in the trunk, and my hands are all covered in rust from the stupid annoying little jack and the bent-up fake tire iron.
So I get to buy 2 new tires.
Where are all those sugar daddies?? They should have called by now!!