I'm already running 10 minutes late. I hate being late.
No, really. I hate it.
With every fiber of my being, I loathe being late.
I am chronically early. All the time. For everything.
But I digress.
I'm already fifteen minutes late. I start my car to get the defroster and fabulous seat heaters running, close the driver's side door, and run to open the gates at the bottom of our driveway. I get back in the car and am greeted by a day-glo orange warning light glaring back at me.
That's not really what I said.
It looks like an exclamation point embraced in a parenthetical bear hug.
Perhaps, an exclamation point wearing a modified inner tube.
WTF, Lexus? Are you serious with yourself?
It might as well have been a monkey holding a plunger.
It can't be my oil. I know I'm due, but it doesn't look... oil-like.
It can't be my wiper fluid, we just refilled that!
And doesn't that warning light usually look like ocean waves?
I should have been out the door fifteen minutes ago.
Oh. My. God. I'm going to have a breakdown.
Tearing through my owner's manual, I realized my tire pressure is low.
My tire pressure. Fan-freaking-tastic.
Thank you, inner-tube-wearing exclamation point!
Happy freakin' Wednesday.