Flat

So I got a flat tire on Monday.
I don’t work on Mondays, but if I want to do something other than watch Forensic Files and eat Carl’s Jr. all day, I have to drive Justin to work. I think everyone can understand why driving him to work is a rare thing.
Come on. 99 cents for a spicy chicken sandwich, Carl’s Jr.? AND solving crimes without leaving my couch? The choice is clear.
I usually try to wake up as little as possible so I can make a smooth transition back into bed after I get home, even though that never works, and I just end up half-sleeping and having really messed up dreams. But I don’t even brush my hair or my teeth. I even considered not even putting on shoes and driving home in my slippers because I have this foot thing.
We have hardwood floors, which translates to “floors with a thin layer of Scamp’s litter.” I don’t know where my foot thing started, but since I was in high school, I’ve had an obsession with washing my feet and keeping them clean. Sandals terrify me, and I have no idea why someone would volunteer to get dust all between their toes all day. I’m shuddering just thinking about it.
Well, to put it mildly, living here with hardwood floors is not unlike playing that game in elementary school where the floor is lava and you have to spring from chair to chair so you don’t get burned.
I leave slippers and socks and pairs of shoes strategically placed all over the place like some sort of OCD Japanese house. This way, if I happen to find myself sitting somewhere, having absentmindedly kicked my shoes off, I can quickly hop into a fresh pair of something. Unfortunately, Scamp is a scamp, and he often opens his toes over my socks to let a few grains of litter fall in just because he thinks it’s funny. So I trust no sock or shoe. My slippers have protective flaps that repel litter.
So long story short, I didn’t want to put shoes on, but I finally caved after shaking my sock out for 10 minutes.
So Justin’s driving, we’re cruising down the road about to get on the highway, and I’m trying to simultaneously get some more sleep and listen to that delightful Adam Carolla, who has the esteemed honor of being the only radio personality who doesn’t make me want to drive my car into oncoming traffic. Can’t say the same for his posse, though.
Anyway, a friendly passing motorist started honking and gesturing wildly towards the back of my car, and sometime just before I dove onto the floorboards to avoid my very first drive-by shooting, I realized that he might be talking about my tire.
So we pulled over, and sure enough, my third flat tire in 9 months. The first two were actual flats. The first happened on the drive back from Alabama picking Justin up, and that tire was in shreds. The second was noticed after Justin got to work, but it was an old tire. This one…was a nail. Can someone tell me how a nail gets lodged in a tire? They’re, you know, long and flat. I can tell you that if *I* were run over, I would not shoot into an upright position, lodging myself in a tire. So unless those shady characters who live across from me took a break from letting their dogs run loose in the alley to drive a nail into my tire, I have no idea how it happened.
Luckily, we live in a town where all you have to do is turn around 360 degrees on any road, and you can find any business you need. So we pulled up to a nearby tire place, and I did my best to fix my appearance by putting on a hat and a coat, but that only made me look more like a homeless person than I already did. And next to Justin in his nice work clothes, we must have looked like quite the pair indeed!
The tire patching only took about half an hour, and I passed the time by explaining to Justin how the book “Timeline” was infinitely better than the movie by recounting to him the entire plot. As a matter of fact, I believe a video of me summarizing the book dressed like a homeless person was actually better than the movie.
Anyway, so I’m pretty glad I wore shoes, but it still sucked.
Who gets three flat tires in less than a year?
Chumps, that’s who.

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