Or How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Tire

That might be one of the worst titles ever, but I'm sticking with it.

I had the extreme pleasure of getting a flat tire this morning. Before you start worrying, I made it out almost unscathed. I do have a couple of scratches on my hand, which look like I got into a battle with a super kitten. There is nothing quite like changing a tire on a busy Southern California Freeway. The dust, trash, rubbernecking drivers and hypodermic needles (okay I'm exaggerating a little) come together to form a pleasant atmosphere. It took the strength of the Incredible Hulk, and a couple of words I won't repeat here, to remove the bolt's holding the tire on.  A guy in a tow truck, who was part of the California Highway Assistance Patrol, stopped and proceeded to watch me change the tire and chat about his Cadillac Lowrider. I ended up finding a nail the size of Rhode Island in my tire. The cherry on top is spending the rest of the afternoon at work dirty as a bum, and explaining to everyone why you were thirty minutes late, covered in road grime.

During my lunch break I got to spend an hour at the tire shop. The gentleman working was named Bill and was probably the nicest guy I have ever met working at a tire shop. He suggested a sandwich shop right down the street, so I walked there and had an excellent lunch. I ended up getting four tires, because they were looking a little long in the tooth.

Now I sit in front of my computer, safe in my cubicle, typing this out and thinking to myself "Hey, it could have been worse." All in all, not a bad day.