Sunday, March 18, 2018

Luck of the Irish

I woke up yesterday--St. Patrick's Day--just not wanting to get up and face the day. I had errands to run (haircut, books to library) and taxes to do and I still needed to finish up odds and ends before I get ready to head back to school on Monday.

But I got myself up, and sat down with the taxes and got them about half done. Fine! Great!

It was time to go get my haircut, and along the way I'd return my library books, and when I got back, I'd finish said taxes and the day would be set.

So I hot-footed it out to the car, started it and... the tire sensor light went on.

Not. The. Tire. Light.

That thing has been lighting up my life for the past six months like you wouldn't believe. Last December, it went off, I took the car in, they reset the air pressure, I went home.

Next morning, it went off again. I said, "Screw it, I'm doing errands and I'll take it in tomorrow morning." So that's what I did.

The next morning, I could see a noticeably flat tire. Turns out, it had a nail in it.

Fast forward to February. Driving along, I spy an enormous pothole. This is the Northeast, it's winter, the potholes can be quite nasty. I go around it.

In going around it, I drive over a small patch of gravel. One particularly sharp piece gets lodged in the tread--I can hear it as I drive. I stop, check, wiggle the big piece of gravel, and hear a hissing sound begin.

So I press the gravel back to where it was pre-wiggle, at which point it stops hissing. So I ka-tunk-ka-tunk-ka-tunk my way to a tire repair shop a mile away. (Because yes, the piece of gravel is big enough that you can hear it hit the ground as the tire rotates.)

At the tire repair shop, I'm greeted by a pack of dudes behaving like teenage goofballs.

I don't know what the auto repair shop equivalent is of guys swatting each other with towels in a locker room, but let's just say, if these guys had towels, and were in a locker room, that's what they'd have been doing.

I knew the minute I saw them that I'd be told I had to buy a new tire. Regardless. So I made my peace with that.

It was a bit harder to make my peace with the fact that it took them AN HOUR AND A HALF to fix my tire, despite the fact that I was THE ONLY ONE IN THERE.

Gee, I really can't imagine why I was the only one there. I look forward to seeing the "Going Out of Business" sign on that place.

Anyway, I left (eventually) and went on my slightly-less-merry way. Later that night, I hit an even more enormous pothole. This one was truly horrifying and it was at night, so I didn't even see it until it was too late.

Of course, I'm now also reluctant to go around the potholes, because that didn't go so well for me when I tried it.

Anyway, I hit this one, shrieked, "Dear god, NO!!!" and thought for sure I'd be in another tire shop within the hour, but no.

I lucked out.

Until yesterday morning. Because you see, as it turns out, that tire light went on because the dudes at the tire repair place filled the new tire way--WAY--beyond what any normal human being would.

I don't know why.

All I know is, the guy yesterday said, "Ma'am, here's the thing. You got one tire on there with a psi of 47. You got another tire on there with a psi of 34."

I'm going to go out on a limb and assume that the 47 was the work of the dudes. This also explains why the car had been using more gas lately. And probably why I thought it sounded funny and didn't really handle as well.  (I had chalked that up to me being tired and needing it to be Spring Break.)

But you know, here's the thing: if this had to happen, at least it didn't happen when I was on a long- distance driving trip--I've got a couple of those in my future--and it didn't happen during any of the various nor'easters we've had lately. It happened while I was at home, and the car was in the driveway. And that's a good thing.

The Luck of the Irish, I'd say.

Happy St. Patrick's--and St. Gertrude's!!--Day.

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Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote, "Life is short, but there is always time for courtesy."