 Woefully Underinflated |
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Once upon a time, in this fair city existed full service gas stations on every corner. It seems that now they are all gone. Every few weeks or months, I would go to the full service pump and ask the gentlemen to check under my hood and check my tires, and I would leave freshly pumped and watered and oiled and sometimes with a piece of bubble gum or a lollipop. Those were good days. I noticed recently that my tires were looking a little peaked, so I drove to my parents' house after yoga last night for some bean soup and some fatherly tire inspection. He broke out his trusty digital tire gauge thingie and my owner's manual and noted that while my tires were supposed to be sporting readings of 30, they were as low as 15. My dad just knelt beside my car and wiped his eyes and shook his head. "Underinflated," he said resignedly. "These tires are woefully underinflated." He slapped the gauge in my palm and sent me off to the gas station with the free air and water. "Go," he instructed. "Fill." Anxiously, I called my older brother en route to the gas station to ask him to meet me there, but alas, he was out of town. "Is it possible for the tire to get so full that it will explode in my face?" "No," he sighed. "It takes a really long time to fill up a tire." So I parked my car next to the free air and water and examined the hose and placed it on my little tire air sucker tubey thing, somewhat alarmed at the loud spurtiness of the air. I started with the tire that clocked in at a measly 15. I held the air on there for a little while and decided to stick the gauge on it and measure it. And it read 65. I dropped the hose in alarm and stepped away from the car and did what any mature woman would do. I called my mother. "Mom," I whispered urgently, "I think my tire is surely about to explode." "What? I'm washing dishes! Isn't there anyone there you can ask for help?" "No!" The panic was mounting. "This isn't a full service gas station!" "You're going to have to let some air out of it." So in trepidation I stuck the little air letter outer part of the gauge onto the tire tube thing and started letting air out and praying that I would not be sent flying into the street by the exploding tire. It was truly a Bean Trees moment except I was not at Jesus Is Lord Used Tires and Mattie was not there to reassure me that I wasn't going to die a heinous airblown death. I kept measuring and measuring and deflating and deflating until it finally got back into the 30s and then even into the 20s just to be on the safe side. I slowly made my way around the car, filling the other tires squirt by tiny squirt, forcing my mom to stay on the phone with me the entire time. I jumped out of my skin when a guy rode up on a bicycle right behind me and asked me for thirty cents with which to buy a beer. I looked at him, tube in hand, phone cradled between shoulder and ear, as I am kneeling in grease and clearly out of my element and way over my head, and said, "Dude! Do I look like I can hand you thirty cents right now?!" He shrugged and rode away, and my mother was alarmed, ordering me to get in the car immediately and lock the doors. I finished up what I was doing and went back to measure the 15 tire and it was down to 21, which I didn't think was very good, but at that point I was at my wit's end, covered in tire and grease from the cement, and I drove home in exhaustion. It's truly a wonder that I was ever allowed to move out of my parents' house. Even though my mother had to practically talk me off the ledge throughout the entire endeavor, I was proud of myself for accomplishing this feat of putting air in my tires for the first time at the age of 28. I guess better late than never is a good adage for these things. I then went home, washed the grease off, and caught my breath by relaxing with my latest little gift from TiVo, the recorded episodes when Alex and Ellen get together, otherwise known as the very best Family Ties episodes of all time. TiVo is My Christmas Miracle. 
© Copyright 2003 elb |
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