I totally blanked. Like BIG TEST blanked. And then solution neurons started firing. Tow truck? Are my rims going morph into modern art if I drive into the parkng lot? Am I going to have to take the bus home? Should I just walk away from this car and start a new life as one of those insufferably -- albeit ham-thighed -- bike hippies?
Then I remembered the whole spare tire choreography and got a little excited. If I could find mine beneath kitchen appliance graveyard in my trunk, I would have a pretty kickass experience on my hands: Changing my tire. In the Target parking lot. This wielding of tools brought to you by Merona and Converse. How Xhilerating.
But something didn't feel right, as I limped the Civic into the lot. Frankly, I'm not a "flat tire" person. That's just not the sort of thing that happens to me. I'm not, like, passing out pamphlets on tire health awareness, or wearing a black rubber bracelet. But I know my disasters and this one was out of character.
I'm more "spill coffee on a white shirt," or "lose important documentation." I'm like "Miss the bus. Chase it. Get splashed when someone drives through a puddle." I'm "zipper down all day", and "accidentally make a joke that might or might not have tweaked the person who's uncle just died."
And I was right. When I got out of the car, I realized I'd just run over a cardboard box that got jammed under my car.
By the way, I'm definitely a "person who brags on the internet that getting a flat tire is out of character, and then gets a flat tire." So we have that to look forward to.