I trekked through the beginnings of a classic March blizzard yesterday morning, workout gear in my backpack, fully intending to hit the gym after work. Really I did. Then, about 3 p.m., my lovely wife called me on my cell to notify me that the Crapmobile (my 17-year-old son’s not-so-affectionate moniker for our ’91 Honda) had bit the dust in the parking ramp next door.
She was on her way to an appointment with a Life Time Fitness personal trainer downstairs, but clearly that was not going to happen, since she had to call a tow truck now and it would be an hour, at least, before salvation would arrive, and because the Crapmobile’s disabled ball joints had actually led to the wheel bearings falling from wherever wheel bearings are supposed to be and the front axle collapsing there on the upward slope of the ramp, she would be standing there directing traffic around our little blue wonder for the forseeable future.
I dutifully notified the aforementioned P.T. that my wife would like to reschedule her appointment during a time when she wasn’t directing traffic in a parking ramp. Then I headed next door to survey the damage and lend moral support.
Our poor little car was indeed immobilized (though a couple of fairly muscular trainers showed up later with the idea of pushing it into a less inconvenient position until they noticed that it wasn’t going anyplace unless they picked it up and that picking it up would be a problem, since it was a car . . .), and my poor wife was thus destined to resolutely await the arrival of the tow truck.
Did I mention that we were having our annual late-March blizzard? Well, by the time the tow truck had hooked up our crippled little vehicle and headed off to the auto hospital, there were about 6 inches of slushy snow on the ground and a rip-roaring northwest wind propelling it through the air in a particularly unpleasant manner.
Was I going to let my lovely wife traverse the storm on her way home all by herself? I don’t think that’s what a guy like me does, do you? No sir. So, we tromped our way through the tempest toward the river, picked up a bottle of wine at the liquor store, caught the first bus we saw, transferred to the train heading south, and walked the last four blocks home, where we had a nice spaghetti dinner with the kids (none of whom seemed surprised that the Crapmobile had broken its leg), after which I watched the Twins game.
So, that’s why I didn’t go to the gym last night.
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