Sunday, October 11, 2009

I am man, hear me roar.

Yesterday, my fingers were covered in paint. It was two showers before my skin and nails were back to normal. Today, they are coated in grease and grime. Something about having dirty hands (not dirt under the nails because you don’t clean, but actual stained and penetrated) makes me feel very manly. Grrrrrrr…..

Before seeing Whip It (which everyone needs to quit doing what they are doing and rush out and see it right now) with MD, I helped her (and several others) paint her new condo. She picked really daring colors, which is new for her, and it seems to be coming along very nicely. So happy and proud of her! I was in charge of the guest bathroom and lavatory. I spent most of the time taping (which I hate) and a small amount of time actually painting (which I enjoy). After finishing, I took off all the lovely blue tape and wondered why I had even bothered. I just can’t seem to figure out how to use that tape properly. Although the same could be said for the painters I paid to paint my old classroom, so I don’t feel too bad. Somehow, in the midst of everything, I managed to get a light bulb stuck in the socket. I had to break it to get it out. Well, that was the plan anyway. Now there is jagged metal and glass sticking out of one of the fixtures and blue tape over the light switch so that it doesn’t get flipped on and electrocute an unfortunate person with a full bladder. That’s how you use that damned blue tape! You’re welcome, MD. The bill is in the mail.
This morning, after attending the first of four weeks of Bible Study with TB, I was very motivated to have a quick, yet, thorough, workout, come to the coffee shop and write on the short ghost story, and spend a few hours with the puppies before going to carve pumpkins with TB and the boys. I made it to gym, parked—my chest workout going through my head—got out of the car. My rear driver’s side tire was completely flat—not losing air, completely flat. I’m not sure how I didn’t feel that, however, I was blaring the new Blake Lewis CD, Heartbreak on Vinyl, (which everyone needs to quit doing what they are doing and rush out and buy it right now) and dancing like crazy, so that could be part of it. For a moment, I really felt a little like crying. In my old car, I had a flat tire at least every two months. I got so expedient that I could typically change a tire in three to five minutes, depending on how much crap I had to throw out of my trunk in order to find the spare. Besides absolutely loving Bane (I’m keeping him squeaky clean, btw), I was really excited to simply have a car with good tires that hadn’t been bought used from men who don’t speak the same language as I do. It was the first time I have felt betrayed by Bane. Promised one thing and left with nothing. The promise to stay inflated, fulfilled, to stay by my side, keep me safe and content within warmth. (Sometimes a tire is just a tire—sometimes, it’s not.) Letting my disillusionment wash over me, I shrugged and got to task finding the spare in my new car in the frigid air. I got everything ready, and started to unscrew the bolts that had a lesson in commitment that men have never received. For over an hour, I attempted to pry the bolts away from their beloved tires. Now, I am not in the best shape of my life, by any stretch. That’s the problem, my tummy really loves to stretch, it seems; however, I am in one of the strongest phases I have been in. The more time went on the more and more frustrated I became. I stopped being careful and put everything in my body behind my attempts to unscrew. Let’s just say, my neck and back now hurt. All I managed was to lift that portion of the car off the concrete. I’m not exaggerating. Four or five times, the left rear corner of the car was lifted into the air. Still, no budging. Confessing defeat, I called AAA, and got put on hold for about twenty minutes—so glad I wasn’t stuck on a dirt road at midnight with a homicidal maniac hot on my trail (well, maybe I’m not glad—how hot is this maniac?—also not sure why I’d call AAA instead of 911, but we both know that’s exactly what I’d do). Unbeknownst to me, where I was parked was in perfect view for the gym to watch my struggle from where they were working out. I’m sure I was putting on quite the show. This came to my attention when this middle eastern (?) petite woman came out that worked in the daycare, her little daughter in tow. She was very, very sweet, and said that I looked very frustrated. She took the bolt remover thing from me (ratchet ?) and jumped on it. The bolt moved. Following her example, I jumped on the remaining three. Before she left, with great concern in her eyes and voice, she asked if I would be okay and reminded me to tighten the spare on firmly so that the tire wouldn’t go flying off into traffic and kill me. I thanked her profusely and told her, despite what it looked like, I really did know how to change a tire and that I would manage. She walked away, thoroughly unconvinced.

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