Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Twenty minutes after Grahm leaves, I decide to head to work. I get in the truck (which I normally don't drive, midget behind the steering wheel, but I have the shorter commute now--San Antonio, look out!).
Two things you should know: 1) My driveway is incredibly steep like that line graph of our nation's debt since Obama took office (sorry, had to). I often sing "Climb every mountain" while I walk up it. 2) I am pathetically weak. Betty White could kick me on my pre-varicose-vein bum.
In order to set sail to work from my mountain of doom, I had to push the emergency brake down in the "monster" truck. The problem was, I could NOT do this. At all.
My process went something like:
Push the button. Force my scrawny arms backward. Heave ho, Heave ho. Push the button again. Hope my toothpick arms suddenly morph into Jillian Michael beasts. Realize that's not going to happen. Break a sweat by all the heaving. Look down the street to see if any burly men were out and about. Repeat till I feel like the most incompetent person on the planet, which took a whoppin' 30 seconds. God says your faith can move mountains, well, all I wanted was for the dumb brake to budge.
This was some serious incentive to pump iron to strengthen these wet noodles of mine and to meet the neighbors ("Umm hi, I know we haven't met yet-- but I can't work the brake in my truck because I'm three years old.")
Needless to say, we will never be parking the truck in the driveway again.