I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR!

This is what I woke up to on Wednesday morning. Judith (as my minivan has been baptized) had a flat tire. Very, very flat. So flat that when I kicked it, I made a dent. This is a close approximation of the conversation I had with myself:

"You're totally stuck. Changing tires requires testosterone and technical know-how. You have neither."
"Great, what am I supposed to do? I don't have home teachers yet... no boyfriend... Call Dad? Maybe he can fix it telephonically."

Luckily, she was just parked in the driveway, so Judith's misfortune wasn't a pressing issue. I then proceeded to forget about the problem until Friday night, when I phoned my dad.

"Hi, Dad. I have a flat tire."
"Well, sweetie, you could always try to put on the spare yourself. Just read the owner's manual and follow the directions closely."

What?! Fix it myself? Hardly. Instead, I made a quick Facebook post ("Anyone love me enough to help me change a tire?") and again placed Judith's plight on the metaphorical back burner.

I had a couple volunteers for assistance when I woke up on Saturday morning, but at exactly 11:51am something strange came over me. I snatched camera and keys and went out to the driveway.

"Hmmm... I might as well take a look at the owner's manual to get an idea of how labor intensive this is going to be," I thought, "and by extension how much curry I'm going to have to pay out my helpful manfriend with."

At this point I went into a wrench-jack-and-spare-tire-induced trance, from which I awoke to find this:


I had changed the tire myself.

What?

I then rushed in to the house yelling, "Amy! Amy! Come take a picture of me! I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR!" So yeah. I changed a tire all by myself. And documented it.

Next step: start a soroptimist club.

This moment also fits nicely into this article my friend Alex (ha! Note the gender ambiguity) showed me, called "The End of Men" from the July/August Atlantic.