The battery in my car died yesterday. Before you get all stressed, I’ll give away the joke by telling you that I was not harmed in the making of this story.
It was, however, 11 degrees outside.
We all know by now just how I feel about cold. In case you missed it, though, the Reader’s Digest version is that I hate it. I hate it with a passion and, though I love the seasons, I would prefer a slightly less wild season than winter. Nothing good happens in winter.
Back to the story: it was 11 degrees out, my car wouldn’t start, and everyone had already left. I sat there in my car turning the key and turning the key to no avail.
“JJ always says to call him first,” I thought as I pulled out my cell. “Not that he answers, but hey. I promised.”
He didn’t answer. I called La Doyenne, the obvious next choice.
“Should I come get you?” she asked. “I’ll just get my shoes on.”
“Not just yet,” I replied. “DrDrew works right here, I’m going to see if he’s still in the office.”
“Call if he’s not.”
I called DrDrew. He did answer.
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” he said.
And he was. He arrived and I hopped in his car while we waited for someone to arrive with jumper cables – yes, neither of us had jumper cables. When we got it started he then drove with me to the auto parts store where we ran into a coworker of mine who quickly did a once over of my car. Fuses, he decided, though perhaps the alternator.
“I’d go ahead and hope it’s not the alternator,” he said to me, like every guy I’ve spoken to since then has said.
Amidst all this kerfuffle, JJ decided to call me back. Two times. Once leaving a voicemail. Upon returning his call he insisted that I stay on the line with him en route to work and that I should also call him when I was preparing to leave as well as all the way back to the city.
Like that’s going to help anything.