Yesterday I got a flat tire. I was driving home from the grocery store. The kids were eating corn dogs and drinking little cartons of chocolate milk. They were singing and dancing and probably yelling too. I can't quite remember. But I could tell something was wrong with the car. It sounded funny and wouldn't go faster than 25 miles per hour.
Like any good girl scout, I pulled over and checked for flat tires. It's like checking to see if something's plugged in. Like the only thing I know to check for. And bingo. I had a flat. It was the rear right tire.
I called Christian. He left work. We waited on the side of the road and the kids rolled down the window and yelled at cars to stop and help. Which was fine until the FED EX guy heard them and looked over at me. "What?" He asked with raised eyebrows. I looked up from doing something really important. Like trying to google how to change a flat tire. "Oh, we're fine." I smiled. He drove off.
Anyway. Christian took care of us. We switched cars and loaded up all the groceries and went home, leaving him on the side of the road with a wrench and a spare. The saint.
But the point is: this morning Jane had ballet. I have been loading the jogger in the car and taking Nell for a run while Jane's ballet-ing. It's about the only thing I have time for and it gives Nellie a chance to look for dogs. Which is basically her equivalent to Disneyland. Anyway, I was shoving it in the trunk of the car when I noticed the jogger had a flat tire.
The right rear tire.
All this could only mean one thing:
The universe does not want me to exercise.
Alright, universe. You win.