With Isaac living in Chicago for the summer and a sad Camber alone at home, our car decided this would be an opportune time to burn out a bunch of blinkers.
So I changed the blinkers. It was just me, the owner's manual, and the tool set. While I was at it, I changed the light bulbs over our license plate, because they've been out for almost a year.
Here's what the rest of this post should sound like: I'm amazing, girls can do anything, who needs boys, I feel so empowered, doing manly repairs is awesome and fun, etc.
That's a post for someone else to write. Sure, I can do it, and I did feel a twinge of satisfaction when I turned left at a light and heard the satisfying "click-click" of my healthy blinker, but I still want my husband around.
During the course of my car repairs, I managed to:
-Break an old lightbulb and waste 15 minutes trying to pry out the broken shards of glass from the unyielding clenches of its holder
-Get shards of the afore-mentioned glass all over the parking lot and my kitchen floor
-Drop a wrench into the bowels of the car's interior and stick my poor pristine hand into the greasy interior to fish it out of an impossibly obscure location--please note the damage
-Lose the light bulbs and waste 5 minutes looking for them
-Get mud on my jeans
-Lose an hour I could have spent in my wind-proof, 75-degree apartment to instead stand in 35 mph wind gusts at 55 degrees
Who are these stupid girls that want to do all this instead of delegating it to their husbands? Of course women need men around! Sure, I got the job done, but I would enjoy my blinker's satisfying "click-click" just fine if Isaac had done it all. And I would have an hour of my day back, spent reading on the couch in climate-controlled bliss.
Feminists are crazy.