Help

I arrive at my car just in time to get to my appointment. Turn the key and nothing, try again and get a faint groan.

            I am the daughter of a mom who used the “Oh, honey!” method. Brilliant and competent, yet when my dad was gone she’d ask Mr. Borsos next door to open jars for her. When Dad was home, “Oh, honey!” would bring him running to help.

            I do not want to be like that.

            I’ve been training myself to be my own rescuer for years, and this time I have not even one tiny helpless princess moment. I walk to my appointment, planning bus routes to get to the NAPA store. I call my mechanic, who gives me free advice. He agrees with me that it must be the battery, since we just replaced the alternator.

            My appointment is for a blood draw. A nice-looking man sits down next to me in the waiting room, and as the receptionist takes someone back we hear, “Don’t sit in that chair, it’s wet.”

            I turn to the man. “I wonder what kind of test caused that,” I say, and we laugh. We chat some more, and it’s only once I’m out the door that I realize I could have shared my predicament with him.

            Oh, honey.

            Except it’s not a predicament. I get to my car and realize I’m right next to Costco. They sell batteries in the tire store!

            I walk over, buy a battery, and sweet talk the sales guy into loaning me a socket wrench.

            “We don’t usually do that, but…”

            He smiles and hands me the tools.

            “Most bolts on a Honda are 10mm, but just in case here’s a 9, too.”

I’m planning how to get the battery into my cart, when a guy in line says, “Would you like a hand with that?”

“But you’ve got your hands full,” I protest.

He parks his pizza and drink on a tire display and puts the battery in the cart for me.

When I leave, someone else holds the door as I wheel my giant cart out.

Soon I’ve got a whole scene going: hood open, cart pulled up alongside. I’ve got the cables off, and just as I’m gearing up to get the old battery out, another man appears. Long hair tied back, a neatly trimmed beard. Good looking, and likely twenty years younger than me.

“Hey, do you need some help?” he says.

“Well, I know what to do, but if you would lift this for me…?”

He puts the old one into the cart and sets the new one in its place. He’s smiling, doesn’t seem at all disappointed to give mere brute strength instead of advice. Before he leaves he says one more time, “You’re sure you’re OK?”

I hate to see him go, but really, I am ok.

I set the cables in place and grab the wrench. Wait! I definitely should not touch the terminals bare handed. I’m wondering if I have any gloves in my car that might work, when a woman appears. Young, pretty, concerned.

“Do you need some help?” she asks. The refrain of my day.

“I just need some gloves.”

“I have gloves,” she says.

“Rubber gloves?”

“Yes, I’m a nurse.”

Then she watches me tighten the bolts like it’s some kind of magic. I show her the little switch on the socket wrench that reverses the direction of the torque.

“You could do this,” I say. “It’s easy.”

She sticks around ‘til I start the car, gives me a high five. Says she was going to offer me a ride.

But the car starts right up. I’ve sent the handsome princes away. I am not a helpless princess. It was just a battery. It was just four bolts.