My chiropractor checked out my tires, of some questionably foreign make, and gave me directions to the nearest gas station with a working air pump machine. Of course the three nearest ones are known for having fritzy air machines, when I need something as free and available as air it would be in short supply. Even though I have an irrational fear of things that explode (specifically: plastic balloons, the refrigerated biscuits in the tube containers, and glass in the oven or holding a candle) my two tires, flatter than a pre-pubescent girl’s chest, were the only things standing between me and my loving boyfriend and the delicious dinner.
