Sunday, February 24, 2013
Full Of Hot Air
Wouldn't you know it - out of nowhere (actually, on the way home from the wedding), an icon resembling a tire burned bright on my dash board. Needless to say, it scared the heck out of me and when I parked, I grabbed my owner's manual to figure out what to do. Can you guess what jumped to the top of my to-do list?
I told my husband my tires were not inflated properly (the manual made it sound like I couldn't drive another inch until I fixed the problem), and he was gracious enough to give me a working tire gauge. Bummer. Hadn't planned on getting that close to my tires and the ground ever.
I asked my husband about how long this should take. His reply: no time at all. That was enough to convince him to accompany me to the said gas station and become my attendant.
What was supposed to take no time at all actually took 30 minutes. First, the closest gas station was jammed packed at 7:45 am. I mean, I fill up my car at night so I can go straight to work in the morning. Is this an original thought?
Air is no longer free in Los Angeles. You actually have to pay for it. Okay, we're talking 25 cents, but still. Buying hot air is creepy. Especially when the pump is anchored by two massive work trucks whose drivers are missing. It took me 5 tries to back up into the spot and I couldn't open my car door.
My husband plunked down the quarter, and we waited a few minutes for the pump to be turned on. Meanwhile, he checked the air pressure. I was rolling on 25 psi, a good 10 psi below optimal. But now, that's all changed. Because of my husband, my tires are totally full of hot air. Just the way I like it.