I knew it was low when I pulled out of the garage. Probably a long-term consequence of my fucking tack debacle. By the time I got to the bank, I could hear the grinding as I drove on the rim.
Cringing, I thanked the man who got out of his vehicle in line behind me to notify me of my already embarrassing tire situation.
I crawled at a snail's pace to the Stewart's in town, which carries free air. Thank G, because I'm not paying for shit I can breathe in for free.
Sheepishly, I pulled into the parking lot in front of my neighbor (of course, small town living!) and three punk kids on bikes eyeing my disabled mobile. I was half a mile from the house, and my mind filled with visions of having to leave my car at Stewart's until K got home from work and walking home to the taunting of the Stars Hollow Bicycle Gang.
I prejudged. I totally did. But I shouldn't have, because one of the punk kids got off of his bike and helped me fill my tire.
I made it home in one piece, thanks to the kindness of my neighbors. And I learned once again that small town living can sure be a blessing. But if you like to live an incognito lifestyle, it's definitely not the place for you.