I was in such a panic about grad school that I forgot to share a little slice of me growing up.
I, the mechanically challenged 23-year-old that I am, bought a set of tires all by myself last week.
You see, I was driving home from work Thursday afternoon and I apparently ran over a screw, completely unnoticed. Around three o'clock that afternoon, my sister Erin drops by for a visit, and as she walks in the door, I hear, "Dude, Ashley, you've got a flat tire."
"What are you talking about?" I replied.
"Go look at it! I was wondering why you were parked like that. How'd you miss it?"
Sure enough, I went to look at my car and my front passenger's side tire was flat. I don't mean just a little slack, but cartoonish, oh-my-gosh-what-the-h#%$-happened flat. Thankfully, my dad came home a couple of minutes later, discovered the screw, and sent me to have my tire fixed. That was the quickest and cheapest car repair I've ever had done. Fifteen minutes, five bucks, and I was back on the road.
However, my tires were the original ones on the car and, according to the mechanic at the shop, pretty well worn, so Friday I had to venture out and get new tires. The guy who put the plug in my old tire quoted me a price of a little over $320 for a full set, but being slightly broke I did not want to spend that much on tires.
Finally, Friday afternoon, I bought a set of tires for $271.11. I did it all on my own, without my dad or boyfriend there to help.
And I know nothing about tires.
I know that it sounds strange to be so proud about buying tires, but it's one of those ventures into the adult world that sort of validates that yes, I can function on my own even if I have absolutely no clue what I'm talking about. I sorted out a major investment and took care of it all of my own accord, and it felt good.
Well, until I handed over the check. That kind of stunk.