Day 07/30: My Counterpart
Today I decided to go get my haircut, a modest plan, not one typically frought with peril or drama. I guess you never know when Lady Luck is going to stick it to you. She's a fickle villain.
When I got out of the car this morning (after paralell parking like a boss) I heard something hissing. After a brief inspection of Kitten Fingers, I found the source of the noise, a big gaping hole in the front right tire, with a cute little screw dangling from it. Aw jeez.
I thought about calling Scott, but then I decided it would be better if I solved this problem on my own. Determined to be self-sufficient, I rifled through my trunk for necessary tools. It didn't take long for me to remember that electric cars don't come with spare tires. (That space is taken up by batteries, you see.) Luckily, I remembered the dealer telling me something about a fix-a-flat device coming standard. I played Nancy Drew for a bit, then found a secret panel in the back, hiding a mysterious plastic box and a bottle filled with strange, murky fluid.
A few simple pictograms later, and that miniature compresser was pumping away, supposedly filling my tire with air and goop, my ticket to the tire shop. After ten minutes of pumping the thing had made zero progress. It seemed to only be succeeding at pushing air through the screw-hole.
OK, time to call Scott Bobleo. He sure wasn't happy to have to drive up to Mueller in the freezing cold, but drive he did. To tell you the truth, he was kind of a bear about the whole thing, but still, he came, because he's my dude. It's good to have your own dude, even if he does curse like a sailor while tightening your lugnuts.
We've been married for a little more than four years. We started dating more than twelve, and we've been friends for seventeen. If I do the math, I've spent more of my life with Scott in it than not. Pretty lucky.