The Ladies Who Lunch

Last Friday, I had planned a civilized, elegant day, far from the norm for this country mouse. I was going to do some Christmas shopping, meet the ladies for lunch, spend the afternoon at a spa and take Sequoia to dinner and a movie.  Humming "The Ladies Who Lunch", I dressed in something other than jeans, put on the cute shoes and headed out to the car.

It was sitting in the drive way with a flat tire.

Sigh…

Back into the house I went, changed into grubby clothes and began the process of changing the tire. Yes, I could have called AAA, but they would have taken 3 hours to make it out to the Colestine and I wasn’t willing to entirely abandon my plans.  It was a case of DIY or do without, and you know me; I'm all about DIY.

I’ve changed more than a few tires in my life, especially since moving to the woods (our road is brutal on tires.) But, I had never changed one on the Tracker before. I had to figure out where the jack was (a hidden compartment in a side panel); how to take the spare off of the back door (which involved locking lug, something I've never encountered before), and where to position the jack under the frame (which entailed rolling under the car in the dirt.) It took me an hour, but I managed to remove the flat and install the spare. Coated head to toe in dirt and tire black, I quickly cleaned up and changed back into my town clothes, drove to Les Schwab, got the flat fixed and still made the spa appointment. Of course, I wasn’t feeling elegant or urbane at that point; more like burly and invincible. But I’ll take it.

I'm not bitter. It was past time for me to learn how to change a tire on this car, and I'm grateful that I got to do in my own driveway under a sunny sky rather than on the side of the interstate in the pouring rain. Ain't no way around it: country women gotta know how to change a tire. Them Manhattan girls with their Manolos and manicures would be completely fucked in that situation. Of course, I’d be completely fucked if I had to figure out which fork to use at some high society formal dinner.  I guess we learn what we need to know; the rest is window dressing.

Besides, can you really imagine me lounging in a caftan and planning a brunch on my own behalf? 

Well, a girl can dream, can't she?

I'll drink to that.