One of the worst possible situations in life is trying to change a flat tire while hungover. It's the sort of twisted activity you'd expect to see on Fear Factor, or some other show that tortures its contestants. You're half falling asleep as cars roar past at dangerous speeds, every unsuccessful cranking of the wrench makes your stomach turn, and each sickening feeling running through your body doubles for every minute you spend on the chore.
The only thing worse is when a pretty girl is with you, and you're unable to change the tire yourself. It's the social equivalent of being neutered.
Now you know how yesterday went for me.
I had just met Beth a day before, and here was one of the first images to be sealed in her mind: Me crouched over a tire jack looking like I was about to unleash the worst case of dry heaves since Bette Midler appeared naked on Broadway.
I tried to loosen the lugnuts, but couldn't do it. "Why don't you try standing on the wrench to force it down?" she asked. I tried it. It worked. Damn it. Then I tried to use the jack. As expected, the jack that came with the car was frustrating and worthless. I couldn't keep it locked securely in the right position. I went into Beth's apartment to use the bathroom, and in the two minutes I was gone, she had managed to flag someone down who had a decent jack and change the tire for me. Is it possible to be neutered twice? Probably not, but I know what it would feel like.
As if the tire changing incident weren't bad enough, that morning I had made another faux pas of The Great Rules of Manliness while the two of us ate breakfast at a restaurant. We were at Keys Cafe, a place known throughout Minneapolis for huge portions and delicious food. The two of us ordered one meal with a few extras, and ten minutes later we were given pancakes bigger and thicker than the plate that held them, a portion of ham that seemed to be literally a foot long, and a plate of hashbrowns that could have killed an average middle-aged man.
With my hangover plaguing me, I barely ate more than five bites. With how thin I am, she probably thought I was anorexic. I went to the bathroom to wash the syrup off my hands, and it suddenly occurred to me that she probably thought I was purging the meal into the toilet. Brilliant.
The obvious answer to the classic "who wears the pants" question was solidified later in the day, when we went to get my tire patched. Finding an auto shop that's open on Sunday is difficult, and if you do get lucky enough to discover one, getting a mechanic to take time from the booked-solid schedule to patch a tire is near impossible. They just don't do it. If you walk in and ask for an appointment for service on a Sunday, they'll laugh you right out the door.
We found a place that was open, and with nothing more than a cute smile and a "pretty please" voice, Beth had the mechanic working on my tire. No delay. No "come back at 6 and maybe we can help you. Immediate service with hardly any protest.
I dig the ladies quite a bit, but let me tell you, even if I didn't, I'd probably still hang out with them just for all the free crap I could get. I always thought the idea of pretty girls always getting what they want was a cliched sitcom joke, but apparently it's true. Next time I want a day off from work with pay? Get a girl to ask. A slightly larger than normal ice cream cone at Dairy Queen? Get a girl to ask. Fifty percent off the purchase of a new house? Get a girl to ask. Illegal drugs smuggled through airport security? You know who to get. A lady. A lady with skills. A skillful lady.
I'm not a skillful lady, nor do I possess any of their secret skills. I'm not a rugged or charming man. But damn it, if some girl wants . . . something . . . something written . . . like maybe a flier for a lost kitten? Oh man, then I'll impress the hell out of them. If proper grammar and punctuation impresses them.
Damn it.
