My daughter, EM1, will be turning 23 this month. Not only does that make me feel very old, but it makes me wonder if her mother and I have done everything we can to prepare her for going out and making her way in the world.
The fact she still lives at home with us argues that no … no we haven’t.
I recently told her she has an absolute dearth of common sense.
She said, “thank you.”
Which tells me that she also has a vocabulary that does not include a correct definition for the word, “dearth.”
I think she is a smart kid, but although by all accounts of law and society she is a grown adult, I feel like she is still exactly that: a kid. I remember vividly how naïve and clueless I was when I was her age, and I am betting that in the thousand or so years since I was in my early twenties, kids have not advanced all that much.
It doesn’t help my opinion when I see her exhibiting the same type of decision-making skills I used to demonstrate at her age.
When I was in my early twenties, I recall a little road trip I took with my buddy, Wes Blalock. We both decided that taking off for a weekend to hang out in a cabin for a couple days sounded like a great idea, so we loaded up my Buick Skylark (I warned you this was a while ago) and headed out. We drove out of San Jose and made our way a few hours up into the northern California foothills.
A couple hours into our drive, we were cruising along some two-lane highway in the middle of nowhere when Wes turned to me and said, “What’s that noise?”
I had no idea what he was talking about and said so. He rolled down his window and that’s when I noticed the soft, thwip-thwip-thwip sound outside the car.
Wes started to laugh and told me, “Wouldn’t it suck if we got a flat tire right now?”
That was when the entire rear end of the car started to shake back and forth and the soft, thwip-thwip-thwip became a God-awful Whang-Whang-Whang! I swerved onto the side of the road and skidded to a halt in the dirt and gravel. When we climbed out of the car, we discovered that Wes had cursed us, and I did indeed have a flat tire.
A completely flat tire. The rubber was missing in places, the hole was big enough to put your fist through, and there were so many strands of wire sticking up from the shredded steel belt of the tire that it looked like a Halloween fright mask.
I glared at Wes because, of course, this was all entirely his fault.
Next, we unpacked the spare tire and repair kit, and by “unpacked” I mean we searched the car for three hours until we were able to locate the spare tire and repair kit. I was not terribly savvy about automobiles at that age. I’m still not, if I’m being totally honest. I can usually find where the gas goes in and, on occasion, I might replace the windshield wiper blades. Other than that… Nope.
Anyway, we pulled out the repair kit and went to work jacking up the car.
We got the tire off, and even successfully attached the spare tire without losing any lug nuts in the gravel. I am still amazed by that outcome, but grateful for it. Wes and I loaded the repair kit back in the trunk, then I looked at the ruined tire laying on the shoulder of the road.
I asked Wes, “What do we do with it?”
He shook his head.
“Do we leave it here?”
Again, a shake of the head.
We ended up deciding to take the tire with us because we thought leaving it behind might be littering.
Let me repeat that: We ended up deciding to take the tire with us because we thought leaving it behind might be littering.
We kept the tire because we did not want to leave any trash behind. Not because we might need any part of it later or anything logical like that.
We limped into a nearby town on the tiny spare tire and found an open garage. The mechanic working there said he could sell us a new tire, then asked us where we put the rim.
“The what?” I asked.
“The rim. The metal thing in the middle that the tire goes around.”
Wes and I glanced at each other, realizing for the first time just how close we had come to leaving it on the side of the road fifteen miles away.
Because we thought it was garbage.
Like I said, I was a moron at that age.
Next the mechanic told me it was going to cost about $250 for the new tire, old tire disposal fees, and balancing the new wheel on the rim. Neither Wes nor I had any cash with us. At least, not that much.
I told Wes, “I have a credit card, but my parents told me to only use it in emergencies.”
Wes stared at me as if I had just told him, “I have shoes, but my parents told me I should only put them on my feet.”
“Emergencies?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“You mean, emergencies like getting a flat tire in the middle of nowhere and needing to buy a new tire?”
“Um… yeah. I guess those kinds of emergencies.”
“Good,” he told me, “because I was starting to wonder exactly what the hell your definition of an emergency was.”
Sheepishly, I took out the credit card and paid for the tire. An hour later, we were back on the road and on our way.
Anyway, the point of my whole rambling story is this: That idiot kid that I used to be, is now my daughter, and it worries me when I think back to all the stupid stuff I used to do. I look at her and I see myself at that age.
Well, I see myself except for one important difference.
EM1 still hasn’t learned how to change a flat tire.
.
.
.
Enjoying Deep Dark Thoughts? Follow me on Facebook so you don’t miss a post. Just go to my page and click the “Like” button to receive updates on my blog and other projects.
And you can follow me on Twitter @gallenwilbanks.