Nailed (and not the fun way)

My honed-in, on-top-of-it, fully-in-control efforts to take good care this weekend came to a screeching halt only seconds after I pulled out of the parking space, the car full of shorts and swimsuits, floaties and trashy magazines.

I had a flat. Not the kind of flat tire you can (ahem) ignore until your dad looks at you like you have absolutely no knowledge of the intricacies of the machine you operate multiple times a day (more ahems). No, the kind of flat tire you can hear flap-flap-flapping, even above the cranked up Jackson 5 and child with the incessant questions about why we can't have saltwater taffy for dinner if we are technically on a holiday weekend.

Did I mention I was wearing a dress? And heels?

By some lovely fortuitousness or fate, my downstairs neighbor pulled up just as I hopped out to investigate my tire. He asked what was wrong. I tried not to burst into tears. What in the world was I going to do?

If I pull back the camera, if I take a deep breath, I know that a flat tire is a very small obstacle. I also know that I can change a tire myself (right?!...right?...maybe?...probably?...I think so).

But there I was with a car full of kid and bags and just wanting to get on the road so I could take care of myself already and I was completely halted by nothing more than (I would later find out) a nail crammed into my tire. I felt like I was on the brink of irrationality, tears, and some internal rant about how this was surely The Ex's fault for some reason or another when the neighbor asked me if I'd like his help.

I felt a Rolodex of skills I am sorely lacking, things I really should know, stuff I've never learned flip through my brain. How could I be the only adult in a household and not know how to change a tire? Or an air conditioning filter? Or the stubborn lightbulb over the shower? What in the hell am I doing? Would this qualify me to have my feminist card confiscated? How in the world am I going to thrive as a single mom if my household knowledge is at the elementary level. It was a fast and furious downslide of questions and confidence. It was a sudden and sharp feeling I know surfaces often for many single parents -- one of being in it completely alone.

I have not been very good at asking for help, although I have gotten better since I've become a single mom. And I am not even that good at accepting help, although I need it more than I have at other points in my life. Even in this moment, standing there in pink ruffles and patent leather, I hesitated.

But then it dawned on me -- really in just milliseconds, in a message that seemingly fell from the trees -- that saying yes to help is an act of self-care as well. I nodded.

He came back a few minutes later, still wearing a tie and dress shoes, carrying a something called a Super Jack. Even though I insisted on loosening the lug nuts myself so I contributed at least a little bit, my neighbor completely changed the tire for me. No big deal, no complaints, no worries.

We talked about our kids going back to school and the conservative healthcare crazies and whether we'd be renewing our leases in the building where we live. All the while, he cranked and cranked and fit and re-fit my tires.

A half-hour and many thanks later, we were on the expressway headed out of town. I had a grease spot on the front of my dress and we were already anxious to make a dinner stop. But we were OK. We were on our way.

Even better, I felt grateful, assured, calm. I was already a few miles down the road of taking care of myself.

P.S. Just so we're all a bit more prepared: Here's a step-by-step video by a young woman in a janky tank top of how to change a flat tire. Not that YOU need it. Mostly, it's just for me.