We took my car to Tire Depot to have the tires rotated and balanced, possibly replace a couple of them. Mike insisted I do that before leaving for Memphis. Just the thought that I might have a flat tire en route to Benji's has been the only excuse he needs to send him into a panic attack. "Jesus is my co-pilot," I tell him, "talk to him."

Rather than alleviating his anxiety, that usually inflames him further, so today I agreed to have them checked before leaving. I can't imagine that having him along in case of a flat tire would do me any good at all. I've never been on the side of the road needing help when a Good Samaritan did not stop and help me, and with cell phones, it's not nearly the scary proposition it used to be. Blanche DuBois is not the only daffy damsel to "depend on the kindness of strangers."

The tire store just called to tell me that I do need to replace two of the tires. It's not the two he thought needed replacement, but I'm glad it's being handled. Something tells me that Mike has known for some time that my tires needed attention, but until I planned this trip, he didn't say or do anything about it.

As much as I like to imagine myself a liberated woman, I still fall back into that deeply-ingrained Southern Belle syndrome sometimes, thinking that my sweet daddy will take care of things like this and that real ladies shouldn't worry their pretty heads over such mundane mechanical matters.

Good grief!