Independent women, don’t hate me yet. Beyonce is alive and well in my heart & I know I don’t NEED no man.
But there are times I would like one to open a door for me, hold my hair back after a big saturday night, or help me grab that overpriced, imported cordial ,that I foolishly insist on buying, which sits on the supermarket top shelf. (Seriously, have you tried climbing those things? They are not as sturdy as they look)
This morning that time arrived: I busted my car tyre while parking against a curb. And by ‘my’, I mean my brothers car tyre, which I was borrowing at the time. And by ‘busted’ I mean completely tore it into an unsalvageable mess.
To make the matter worse, I managed to do in front of three blokes, sitting in their bright orange hi-vis oil-stained shirts, having what looked to be a few pies and some Farmers Union Iced Coffees for their 9am tea break.
Being the independent woman I am, I tried to change the tyre myself. Easy! Right?
No. Not right. Well not with a Volkswagon tyre it would seem.
Now ladies, forgive me, for at this point of the story I push back our well earned independence a good couple of decades … I called my dad to save the day.
I’m sorry. Blame those god damn brilliantly efficient Germans and their premium car making skills.
So I was left to it on the curb, puzzled by this god damn tyre, while I waited for my dad to save me. Again.
I think this would be a good point, to note that it was also raining. Yes, raining. Pure poetry, right?
Now here’s where I need to whinge.
Not one of those pie loving men EVER asked if i wanted help.
Despite the struggle, despite my zest & perseverance . And despite the rain.
No. Instead, over that entire hour, they collectively offered me merely two comments in their brief, brute tone:
- “I think you’ve busted your tyre on the curb there”, upon me obviously busting up my tyre. Thanks Captain Obvious-es! (I assume that’s the plural!)
- “You know you can only go 60 k’s on that one?” upon seeing me about to drive off on my spare tyre. Once again thanks for pointing out the obvious. Luckily those efficient Germans wrote that ON THE SPARE TYRE. And it’s actually 80 k’s … fyi.
So there it is. Either chivalry is dead OR this pretty face of mine comes only second to meat pies and iced coffee!
The mind wonders though … would those brutes have been more helpful, had I been standing there, in the rain, with my cans out in a tight, white, mini? I’ll keep one next to my spare tyre in the boot, for next time. Just in case.