As independent as women get, there is one thing we hate to do, and that’s pump gas. I held out for the longest time, fueling up at the only station that had an attendant, but that was many years ago.
I was going out on Monday, an out of town trip and needed to top up my tank before I went. I had that internal debate, could I make it there and back or should I fill the tank and not risk it?
I filled up the tank, but it was not without a potential problem. We’re so used to the high price of gas I used to know in dollars, how much money it would take for ¼ or ½ tank. So here I was, just over a half tank and the cost of gas way down, I was confused as to how much gas I might need.
Shouldn’t be a problem, right? The gas pump shuts off if the tank is full, or at least it’s supposed to. I don’t like to be in that situation, fear it won’t shut off and I’ll spill all over the place. Maybe it’s a female thing.
I have a friend who makes a real production of filling her gas tank. First, she dons a pair of black gloves for the purpose, and then she gets out her book, writes down the cost of gas, the number of litres and her mileage. Once that is done she has to reset the gauges in the car. The one that tells her how many kilometres she can go on what gas is in the tank. All this seems like such a fuss and bother, but this woman used to drive to Arizona every winter, alone, and had her route planned out for overnight stays and gas fill-ups. I guess old habits die hard.
I have another friend, a married friend, who has never, and I shake my head even as I write this, never pumped her own gas. Her husband always takes care of it for her. I do get it, if I had someone to do it for me I’d take advantage. Hey, I did. One day my son was with me, in my car, and he asked if I needed anything, and I answered gas. He filled the tank up for me and I much appreciated being relieved of that chore.
There are just some chores we hate to do no matter how independent we might be, and pumping gas seems to be one of them.