I should have known that the day would be bad. It started off that way. And once you get that bad day ball rolling, there is really no turning back.
While hurriedly getting ready for work in the morning, I ripped the last pair of black tights that I had. Since I was dressing up a bit, I needed panty hose, so I was forced to grab my last option-a pair of black lace stay-ups with the yummy elastic bands around the thighs. Then, feeling a bit in the mood for continuing my "I Want To Sex You Up" attire, I followed it up with the skimpiest pair of panties I own-a black lace thong that has two mere strips of said lace that set nicely across my hips.
After said knicker application and hoping that Partner Unit did not see them (and thus ask: "Why, darling, are you wearing black thigh high pantyhose and whip me/beat me panties? Not to mention the hot pink push-up bra?" and expecting to have to perform sexually), I rushed into the closet to grab a nice pair of black trousers. Sliding them on, I noticed that my said pair (and my favorite pair) of black trousers no longer fit-in fact, they slid right off my hips. Apparently, boxing and stress had more of an impact than I had thought they did-I am now, I guess, a US size 8 in trousers. So I hurriedly grabbed a safety pin and pinned the excess of my pants off, since I could not be bothered to find another pair, (and anyway, don't we all want a reminder of the excellent weight loss we have achieved?) My sweater, a hip-length number, fortunately safely hid said silver savior device.
The highlight of my day was that I would be meeting my Dear Mate for lunch. I hardly ever get to see him, so I was very excited to get to have some time having a chin wag with one of the single most important people in my life. On the way to meet him, I had to stop for gas. And it was there that the day really unraveled.
Pulling up to the pump and stepping out of the car, I heard a noise, and I groaned in horror, for it was instantly recognizable. Somehow, I had blown the front right tire. It was expelling air faster than a Marine Corp unit in a curry house. Within 30 seconds, it was dead flat.
A woman at the pump nearby acted like it was the end of the world. "Oh my God!" she shrieked (in Swedish, of course). "What are you going to do? Oh my God! Do you have the number to an auto club?"
Jesus. I wonder what she is like in a crisis. Does she just pass out and hope the first available guy comes along to fix it? If she over-reacts to a flat tire like this, I hate to see how tightly wound she would be about the real shit in life-a lump in the breast. Job loss. The entire in-law family over for an Easter dinner. Whatever. I looked at her, got out my cell phone, and dialed up Dear Mate.
"I'm going to be late, I have had a flat." I said crossly.
"Where are you? Are you ok?" Good. Good man, worried for my safety. Points awarded.
"I'm pissed off, thoroughly inappropriately dressed for tire changing, and having a fucked up day, but I am in the safety of a gas station and I am otherwise fine."
"I am not sure if I dare to ask, but do you need me to come help with the tire?"
"No, I'm ok, but thank you very much." I replied. We arranged a new time to meet and I hung up. Within minutes, he sent me a text message saying that he is happy to help, but worried that I will be offended that he is insulting my independence.
Now, Dear Mate was not having a go at me. That is a fair concern. I am, without doubt, the most independent person I know. If I were to be viciously stabbed in a random knifing in public, I would probably die of blood loss as I stubbornly maintained that I could tourniquet myself, thank you very much. I handle all of my bills and all of my accounts and income myself, thank you very much. When I am walking down steep hills or steps, I don't want you to reach out your hand to try to prevent the inevitable stumbling and 6 feet-slide on my ass, I can do this myself, thank you very much.
And that's not to mention all the self-made orgasms. Whew...thank me very much.
So I pulled the car forward and began the work of removing the tire and changing it. Men, in their cars or pumping gas would stop and stare but not offer to help. It pissed me off a bit, since I thought they should at least offer-isn't that the gentlemanly thing to do? Offer to help a lady (although I would have refused said offer as I am happy to change the tire myself, thank you very much)?
The work was strenuous and my hands were black. I really had to fight to get the lug nuts off. More men just stopped and looked for a long while, then walked on. The gas station attendant even came out, stood outside the door, and watched, lighting up a cigarette and dragging deeply (seems a strange thing to do at a gas station, but to each their own. Hey man, I have made my peace with fate, have you?). And I thought: Fucking tossers, they can’t even offer to help a damsel in distress!
But then, as I finished the horrible and messy job, kneeling the entire time by the car, I began to feel really good. Within ten minutes, I had changed the tire and replaced the busted one in the trunk. I had done it all myself. Clearly I am no Penelope Pit-Stop! I am indeed very self-sufficient. I can do anything. I felt really, really good about myself and my ability to handle the situation in a very adult manner. "I'm Every Woman" starts banging away in my head.
As I finished and went inside the gas station to wash my hands, I saw the attendant was finishing the cigarette. "You're good." He said, looking deeply at me, stubbing out the smoke without taking his eyes off me.
Yup, that's me. Telecom manager by day, tire-changing tough bitch by night. Available for parties and conferences, where I demonstrate how to change the oil, how to saw off your own leg safely, and the mechanics of the machine gun, thank you very much.
I drove to meet Dear Mate, and recounted my experience. I even told him my effrontery at all the men that stood around and stared, without offering to help. And as I bent down to pick up my briefcase to get my wallet, he started laughing.
"No wonder they didn't offer to help you! You silly cow! Do you realize what happens when you kneel down?"
And it was then that I realized. The safety pin on my trousers was missing. When I had bent down during the duration of the tire changing, the world got a full and perfect view of my hips, a well as the complete view of the two black lace strips holding my itty-bitty panties on.
Mortified. That's the only word for it. Thank you very much.
-H.
PS-Jim is against black lace thongs and aiding a good lady in need. He is a fan of the granny panties and has the song "Spank My Bitch Up" as his mobile phone ring tone. Boycott his Guest Map now to show your outrage. Sign mine, just under my picture there, in solidarity of all sexy lingerie the world over.
PPS-but Don loves me, anyway.
Posted by Everydaystranger at October 2, 2003 01:23 PM | TrackBack