I was off yesterday and with nothing better to do on an autumn New England day, I invested two and half hours that I shall never get back in having the tires on our Forester XS rotated.
I had it done where I bought the tires, where I've gotten tires on every vehicle I've ever owned (except the Goodyear tires with the channel in the middle nearly twenty years ago for the Loyale station wagon we had at the time) and where I get a really good deal when I purchase tires.
I gotta tell ya, a hundred and fifty minutes for something that takes about fifteen minutes sort of steams me. A lot. I knew going over there it would be a while and despite the realization if would take forever, I was still semi-rip$hit that it did.
I appreciated the guy suggesting I might want to take a walk or get a coffee and check back. He even asked for my cell phone so he could text me when the car was finished (we were wildly optimistic about this stuff yesterday morning across town, let me tell you).
I don't just walk. I walk. And I got a good piece of my daily ten thousand steps in just hiking around the parking lot which bounds the mall that houses a variety of businesses to include the tire place. I should be grateful for the assistance and I guess I am.
On one of the laps around the lot, shortly after passing the fitness center, I spied a portly gentleman who had no business wearing the work-out togs he had on, complete with a knock-off Tough Mudder head band, heading towards me. In each hand was a large, and I do mean large, bag of fast foodstuffs clutched tightly in those chubby little mitts of his.
I'd liked to have his nerve in my tooth. As we crossed and made eye contact he asked me if I could give him a hand opening the door to the gym. I guess he was afraid to break the rhythm of his french fry dead lifts and those Big Mac arm curls.