Sunday is universally regarded as a day of rest. Not just by religious types; even your basic secular folks view Sunday as the pinnacle of non-work. I am no different. For some reason, though, I had decided to do stuff. I have no explanation for this sudden, strange inclination. Perhaps my mood had something do with it. The last two days had been very good indeed. Sunday afternoon, I awoke in even temperament. I started some laundry, picked up my prescription decongestant (half of a two prong remedy to rid myself of a nasty middle ear infection), and bought food for the day. Then, remembering the advice of my new friend, I checked the free section of Craigslist—I did need a few things, and free is always amenable. After a bit, I’d found what I thought was a good bet, an after-garage-sale bonanza in West Plano. The owners had left the stuff sitting in the driveway, waiting for scroungers like myself to haul it away. With directions firmly in phone, I set off.
By the time I got to the place, there was almost nothing was left—just a couple of old mops and a stained baby bumper. I hadn’t really expected to find anything useful, so I wasn’t too disappointed. I got back into the car and, five minutes into a disastrous attempt at reverse navigation, I was pulled over. In uppity West Plano. Eesh.
I hate being stopped, and I’m broke, besides. I should have been disgusted with myself, but I wasn’t. Perhaps the niceness of the last two days had something to do with my easygoing attitude. The cop was very pleasant, and calmly informed me that not only was my taillight was out, but I was missing a license plate in front (which I wasn’t even aware was an offense, but there you go. There I go, Toyota. Thank you for not drilling any license plate holes in the front bumper, I really appreciate that). I was just starting to ruminate over the cost of a ticket I didn’t have, when the cop came back and gave me a warning. I think I heard angels singing.
In the car, congratulating myself on not pissing off the cop for the amount of time it took for him to give me the warning, distracted and simultaneously fiddling with my GPS so that I might actually get home, I BAM–ran up on the median and blew out my tire. D’oh.
I had a spare, of course, but it was hot as balls, and I didn’t know how to work my jack. (In my defense, readers, I’d only had one flat with this car.) To top it off, I’d bent the wheel. More d’oh.
Three men (separately) drove by and asked if I needed help, but I pride myself on not being the typical female in distress, so I told them no, but the last one got out to help anyway. Blessed man. He taught me how to use my jack, for which I was so grateful that I purposely didn’t sneer inwardly at the law enforcement patch on his starched shirtfront pocket. (I really, really don’t like cops.) I should have been exasperated with myself, but two missing hubcaps and a bent wheel later, all I could think was that I now had a legitimate reason to buy me some rims. And that, after all that, I deserved a beer.