Spare Tire

I don’t feel so much like a third wheel as I do a spare tire—possibly even a training wheel. I don’t consider myself entirely unnecessary like a third wheel, dangling off to the side, potential dead weight. I’m more like a backup plan. I offer reassurance in case one of the tires goes flat so you’re not left thumping down the road making those sad little fart sounds that make people turn to stare.

I guess I can’t really get angry about it. Frustrated, maybe. But I’ve never been there—I’ve never been in love. All googly-eyed, tongue hanging out of the side of my mouth, cheeks pinky and glowy—people who are in love always seem to glow or something. So I can’t really understand all the work that being “in love” involves. The time, the brainpower, the dedication. I just see the results.

My friends all seem to be that type. The type who falls in love and pulls a disappearing act. To me, at least. But I can’t get mad. Maybe if it happens to me, I’ll do the same. Nights at a pub throwing back beers and laughing really loudly will be replaced by watching DVDs and snuggling on the couch or whatever it is that couples do. Maybe the most reliable of friends morph into shadows of their former selves once they’re getting laid on the regular.

But once that goes flat, there I am—trusty spare tire. Haul me out of the trunk and you’ll make it to California as long as you don’t drive too fast. Or, at the very least, you’ll need some company when you just want to drive around.

-L