On the side of the road

It was bound to happen someday. The question was just when. And even more important: where. Apparently last week my number was up, and it was my turn to finally break down on the side of the road. All things considered, I got really lucky. First, it happened on a Monday, and as we all know, Mondays suck anyway. Second, it happened right as I turned on to the interstate, which a) put me within fifteen miles of my house, and b) meant the next exit was a mile away. Third, it was only a sort of breakdown. Obviously, a breakdown is a breakdown since it always involves something that prevents you from driving, but in my case, it wasn't an engine, or a tire. It was a wheel well cover. Yeah. I know, I didn't even know my car had such a thing, but it does. And when it comes loose, it prevents your tire from properly turning, which means you're not really going anywhere, except to a place to stop really quickly. 

I am not quite sure how it happened. My car has been the victim of retreads on several momentous occasions, including one where half my fender liner was scraping along the interstate, but husband-dear always managed to fnagle it all back together with tie wraps and a hair dryer. So whether I ran into some retread and just never noticed it, or whether the two dozen tie wraps finally gave up, I really don't know. All I know is that I had just merged on to the interstate  when a loud screeching noise made me look over at the car beside me and think something ungracious about people who do not take care of their cars. But the car passed and the noise continued. When I noticed my car wasn't steering properly, I realized it was me. And that I better get off the road asap. 

So there I was, parked at a deserted gas station, at 6:45 in the morning, in my cute black and green dress and matching pumps, looking at this:

So what does any self-respecting, liberated, third-wave feminist do? 

Call her husband of course. 

Who turned out to not be at his desk. Nor answering his cell phone. Some digging into my early morning memory made me remember that husband-dear was at PT. And I'm sure my ever-patieny husband was just thrilled to hear his name broadcast over the PA system, and then to have the gym front desk clerk tell him his wife was stranded by the side of the road. Just thrilled. 

I was definitely not responding in my usual manner. I mean, one would expect me to be freaking out about the three classes and two meetings I needed to be getting ready for, the weird guys loitering about, none of whom stopped to ask if I needed help, and work, but I didn't. I did the math, figured that in an ideal world I would be fifteen minutes late to my first class, emailed my class and our department secretary, listened to NPR, and just chilled

Strange. I know. Well, I figured, at least I could count on husband-dear to be frustrated. Right?

Wrong. When husband-dear pulled up, he was grace personified. He drove right over, only stopping by the house to pick up his toolbox, and was his usual chipper 'we'll fix this in a jiffy' self. Only he couldn't. And after observing the numerous men pulling up to the gas station, loitering, and staring at me, he went all manly and told me to take the CRV while he took my poor little Fit into the shop. 

So there I was, an hour later than usual, driving down a now deserted interstate, in a still almost new CRV with leather seats, cruise control, and a whole host of other gadgets, and I realized that maybe breaking down wasn't such a bad thing after all...