12/10/2024
It was a Friday afternoon, and I was finally sinking into the couch after a long week when my wife burst through the door with that look—the one that says, “I’ve done something, but I don’t want to admit it yet.”
She shuffled over, shoes still on (that’s how you know it’s serious), and started with, “You know how much I love you, right?”
My eyebrow shot up. “Uh-huh… what did you do?”
“I, um… may have given the car a tiny kiss… with the curb.”
Oh no. Not the wheels. The beautiful, freshly cleaned, perfectly polished alloys I’d spent an hour scrubbing last weekend. I took a deep breath.
“How tiny are we talking?” I asked, cautiously optimistic.
She hesitated. “Well, it’s more of a, uh, passionate embrace.”
I bolted up, my vision suddenly filled with images of the horror—a jagged curb scar across the rim, like some kind of war wound.
But before I could even let out a dramatic sigh, she handed me the keys and said, “Don’t worry, I called ACR. They’re expecting us.”
So off we went to ACR, and sure enough, the guys there just laughed when they saw the wheel. “Another curbside love story, eh?”
They got to work straight away, and by the time we finished our cup of coffee (and I’d given my wife a well-deserved side-eye), the wheel looked brand new—like the curb had never even been in the picture.
As we drove home, I glanced over at her. “So… you’re gonna avoid passionate embraces with the curb from now on, right?”
She smirked. “I’ll try, but no promises. The curb has been looking pretty fine lately.”
I shook my head, smiling. Same day fix, and a reminder that, apparently, I’m in a love triangle—with my wife and the curb.