How Would I Know I’m Alive If Something Didn’t Go Wrong?

Photo by Bev Potter

So Friday night, around 7:00 p.m. which is my usual escape time, I was headed home from the office when the “low tire” light went on.

It was dark outside. It was cold. I was alone and far from home. Hersh was panting obliviously in the back seat because I had the heat too high, and my natural reaction to the warning was to, of course, freak the fuck out.

You can read more about that part on my Substack, but my text to my boyfriend is still making me laugh, so here it is:

Clearly, I was not okay. I was either having a stroke or needed something vaguely Scandinavian.

“Yes, I think I’ll have the hrlo with a side of hrlp.”

By the time he responded an hour later, I had calmed down considerably once I remembered how to use my portable tire pump — all intelligence having briefly left my brain — pumped up my tire, and drove home.

Because this happens at least once a year. Hence, the portable air compressor. Not that it makes me feel any better about it. I’m still convinced I’m going to have a blow out, veer dramatically off a cliff and burst into flames like a…