dianaschnuth

Those of you who have been playing along at home know that February and March really kind of sucked.

In the middle of dealing with the gutter that was torn off the roof by an ice dam, buying a new refrigerator, and having the appliance delivery guys hit our house with their truck — in the middle of all that, I hit a pothole on the highway on my way to work.

I was actually on the on-ramp from one highway to another, and was preparing to merge, so I didn’t expect to need to be on pothole recon at the same time. I didn’t even see it coming. Right before the yield sign, right when I was turned around checking traffic over my shoulder.

It was one of those impacts where my eyes immediately darted to the tire pressure idiot light — did I spring a leak? No? Whew, OK. Carry on.

By the time I got home that evening, the idiot light was on. Or was it the next morning? Either way, it wasn’t until lunch hour the following day that I really, really had to put air in the tire. It was obvious. I found a gas station on my way to the chiropractor, and fed the air compressor all four quarters we had stashed in our center console. (I could have used my credit card, but it would have cost me an extra 25 cents.) The front driver’s side tire had gotten all the way down to 17 PSI. Yikes.

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