I live in Central Missouri right now (I’ll explain why eventually in another post). I was in no condition to do the one-hour drive to Columbia to the only decent comic shop between Kansas City and St. Louis, Columbia’s Rock Bottom Comics, so my mom drove me there to get new comics (it also allowed her the chance to go hunting for turquoise jewelry ’cause she’s a freak for turquoise) and her Subaru Outback gets a flat tire waaaay out in the boonies. In 90+ degree heat.
And I haven’t changed a tire in eight years.
But I do anyway. I finally figured out how to use a jack and those pain in the ass short lug wrenches (I prefere the big T-wrenches because I’m small), but I figured out that you’re actually suppoosed to stomp on the small lug wrench to get it going. I’m slow on the uptake that way, but I did it, got the tire off — it was exhausting, in 90-plus degree heat, but I did it. And then we decided, heck with it, let’s go in and do what we were going to do anyway (me to go get new comics, she to go spend more of my inheritance on turquoise jewlery) and then get the tired fixed at the local Wal-Borg Continuum. Worked out fine. But still, I changed a tire. In my strange state of mind. And mind you, I weigh about 150 lbs, have about half the strength of Kirk from Gilmore Girls and no mechanical aptitude whatsoever. But I changed a tire and felt like Luke for a day.