Learned Helplessness; Natural Femininity

In education we have a term for kids who have learned that if they sit there staring at the paper long enough professing not to know how to do something, the teacher will come along and "prompt" them until most of the work is done for them. This teaches them two things: first that they don't need to do the work, and second, they can't do it by themselves.

I have a similar attitude toward car repairs and maintenance. I have no idea where to begin, despite the highly educational experience of having once dated a mechanic. So yesterday I went with a friend to put air in his tires. This made me think, how long has it been since I put air in my tires? The last time was a year and a half ago when a customer at the restaurant I was working at told me my tires were low. That was the first time I had ever heard of tires getting low. But my friend reminded me that, perhaps, I should check them again, in case they had changed somehow in the last 18 months.

Sure enough, the back left tire was disgraceful. I held a council with my roommates to determine if the tire was just really really really low or flat. We decided it was really low (which was a relief since I don't know how to change a tire), and I anxiously drove to the gas station. There I confidently pulled up next to the air pump. After all, I'd done this once before, and I'd seen it done earlier that day. I grabbed the tire/pressure gauge-thingie from the glove compartment (thank you, Dad) (it was right next to the spare tail light bulb--thank you x-boyfriend) and unscrewed the cap on my tire.

This is where my problems began in earnest. The pin on the air pump was bent, and it was spewing air nearly full force constantly. I managed to manhandle it onto my tire anyway, and was rewarded by watching my tire begin to swell reassuringly. Paranoid of over filling it, I stopped and tried to measure the pressure so far. I couldn't get the gauge to work. At this point I noticed that someone was parked in line behind me for the air pump. Cute Boy In Nice Car gave me a friendly wave, and I returned to my tire perplexed. I manhandled the air hose to my tire once again, tried to measure the pressure again, failed. I didn't even know how much to fill it up to anyway, since I couldn't find it written on the tire anywhere.

At this point I did some quick weighing of options. I could continue to fumble on my own with no idea of what to do--a pressure gauge I couldn't work, a half-broken hose, and zero knowledge--while Cute Boy In Nice Car continued to wait, or I could take shameless action. I have no shame--just pride. So I walked back to his window, smiled sweetly and said, "Are you waiting for this? 'Cause it will probably go faster if you help." Humiliating? definitly. Worth it? yes. Especially because even he had trouble getting the hose to work since our next attempt bent the pin in my tire, so he had to pry it back into position repeatedly with a pocket knife, stopping to fix the hose with the same knife. Finally, about fifteen minutes later, Cute Boy In Nice Car, after checking all of my tires (two were actually over-inflated), sent me smilingly on my way and wished me a good Friday night. I am extremely grateful to Cute Boy In Nice Car, and for all the Nice Boys who have helped me keep my car running when I helplessly survey the engine.

I swear, I don't do this sort of thing for my own amusement, or because of some case of exaggerated femininity (pink blog not withstanding)! I do try to be somewhat independent. But there are few times I feel so helpless as when my car develops problems. Is there a class of basic mechanics for helpless, over-educated dummies? Maybe I should just move to Oregon where they'll pump my gas for me, since I apparently am hopeless, helpless, and stereotypically girlish when it comes to my car.