As I stood there in the cold, unforgiving rain, my skirt hiked up to dangerous levels and muttering venomous observations about the reputed sexual activity of no one in particular; a dirty hose in one hand and a rocket in the other, it suddenly dawned on me that I had no fucking idea what I was doing.
I don’t know how to check the air pressure on tires, or how to fill a tire with the right amount of air. I had Ed check Lola over the weekend and he said my tires were dangerously low, needing at least ten pounds of air per tire. He offered to do the filling for me, as I had plans that afternoon. I am not so much a feminist that I will not take advantage of a man willing to do my errands for me, so I gladly accepted his offer. There are some things I just don’t do, and dealing with tires is one of them (the other things I don’t do include Kraft Dinner, rimming, sneakers, and reality TV).
Unfortunately, a particularly fascinating NHL ’11 game or twenty came up and Ed forgot all about my tires. Fast forward to this morning, when a streak of stubbornness made it impossible for me to a) wake up on time and b) take transit to work – I was determined to ride today, because I am sick and fucking tired of not being able to scoot due to the rain. I am feeling some serious cabin fever from the lack of freedom, and I can’t take it anymore – so I rode into work, damning the rain and everything else around me. Since Ed didn’t put air in my tires, the job fell to me. No big deal – I’m an evolved and independent woman; proud and fierce and wholly capable. I can (in theory) make an entire new human being out of little more than a jelly sac and a teaspoon of man sauce; I should be able to put some damn air in my own tires. I don’t need a man! Hear me roar, and stuff!
Um, no. I had no fucking idea what I was doing. I think I got some air in the tires – the hose made a wooshing noise, and then the stick shot out further than it did before when I attached it to the nozzle somehow. This is all speculation, of course – for all I know, I actually removed air and now I’m riding even more dangerous than before. Who knew air and tires were so complicated? There ought to be a digital readout that tells you how much air you have and when you’re low. I ride a futurist triumph of form and function, and I demand that my scooter cater to my natural incompetence. Why should I have to LEARN? I want things or people to do these things for me!
Stupid tires. Stupid dirty hose. Stupid NHL ’11. I hate everything.