Today I got a
phone call from Kendra on her way home from school. She ran out of gas…in the
rain. I had been home from a busy day of appointments and errands just long
enough to make myself a nice, hot cup of tea. Glancing at my beckoning,
steaming cup, I squashed my kneejerk instinct to chastise her for not putting
gas in the car, because who hasn’t run out of gas at least once in their life?
Especially as a teenager. But Matt was over an hour away…maybe more with Friday
traffic on a rainy day. And my brother-in-law wasn’t any closer. No knight in
shining armor for us.
So I did what any
sensible, self-reliant woman of the new millennium would do…checked our
insurance policy for roadside assistance. Turns out we don’t have it. Okay,
Plan B. I hurried my preschooler into the car and headed down to the gas
station. Surely they would know what to do.
The station
attendant loaned me a gas can, and I proceeded to try filling it. I suspected I
might be in over my head when I couldn’t figure out how to get it open. I
sheepishly went back to the window and the bemused attendant showed me how to
open it, and how to pull back the nozzle to pour it into the tank. Okay, I felt
empowered. I felt capable. How hard could it be, right?
I found Kendra
sitting in her car, reading a book. Always one to use her time wisely, that girl.
But she had just barely made it around the corner onto a side street, and I was
worried that she might get hit by someone turning the corner. I had the bright
idea that we should try to push her car ahead a little bit. I told her to put
it in neutral and take off the parking brake, and I would push while she
steered. I’ve seen this done before, and it doesn’t look that hard.
Looks can be
deceiving. She skeptically did as I told her, I pushed against the back of the
car with all my might…
…and my cute
little black patent flats slipped right out from under me on the slick, rainy
street, and I fell spectacularly into the gutter. I wasn’t hurt, other than my
pride. My shoes weren’t even scuffed – I checked. And the car hadn’t budged an
inch. Oh, and my daughter, who should be eternally grateful for a mom who would
stand in the rain and try to push her vehicle out of harms way? She was
laughing so hard I thought she might pee herself.
We scrapped that
plan, and decided to just put the gas in the tank quickly and get out of there.
I opened the tank, pulled back the nozzle like the station attendant had shown
me, and…
…gas went
dripping all over my hands and into the street.
Kendra tried.
Same thing. We finally figured out that there is this little trap door opening
thingie on her gas tank, and our nozzle was bigger than the trap door. We only
had a gallon of gas to begin with, and now about a third of that was making
rainbows on the asphalt.
It was time to
suck it up, chance being a disgrace to the Women’s Movement, and call a boy.
Kendra sent out an SOS via text, and a boy she went out with once was about to
come help when lo and behold, a woman pulled over and told us she owned the
service station down the street and would be happy to send one of her mechanics
over. Within minutes, our hero rode up on his white steed…or white pickup,
whatever…walked over with a funnel (duh!) and put the gas in the car. And
furthermore, he would not allow me to pay him a dime. Guess where I’ll be
taking our cars for service from now on?
We made it home
safely, but I took this photo before returning the gas can. Kendra wasn’t too
thrilled about her exploits being my Project 365 topic of the day, but let’s
face it. She owes me.
I took a long,
hot shower and was able to wash almost all the gasoline smell off. And
now I’m sitting here filling MY tank, drinking a (fresh) cup of tea, listening
to music, and unwinding from the adventure while my husband picks up takeout
for dinner. Because if you don’t pay attention to the signals that the tank is
getting low, you might just find yourself out of gas. I am considering that the
symbolic lesson of the day, and taking it to heart.
