I hate going to the gas station.
I would rather go to the dentist and get a tooth removed with a rusty screwdriver than go to the gas station. I would rather go to the gynecologist and get a pap smear with a cactus than go to the gas station. I would rather be forced watch “Fox News” for 12 hours straight than go to the gas station.
I hate the gas station.
Why?
Because it’s one place that I have no idea what I’m doing. This is embarrassing to admit, but I didn’t know how to pump my own gas until I was 21 years old. I still don’t know how to check my oil. Change a tire. Monitor my transmission fluid.
I’m not a lump of inarticulate and uneducated waste. When it’s a topic I want to learn about- I learn. If I’m clueless about something that I feel matters- I will read up on it until I feel confident. Anything involving cars or car maintenance has never made my list of ‘Things I feel so strongly about learning, I’m willing to put down my copy of Instyle or Glamour and cruise on over to the gas station for an impromptu tutorial on car servicing”.
Last week I was driving home and noticed my ‘check oil’ light had come on. I responsibly detoured to the nearest gas station and pulled the lever to pop my hood. My young gas attendant came over and fiddled. And fiddled. And fiddled. And he could not figure out how to lift the hood. He asked me to show him where the ‘latch’ was.
I panicked.
Do I say “I don’t know how to open it”, do I pretend that I do and hope all my stored up karma points get cashed in and I miraculously find it, or do I suddenly pretend my phone is ringing and faux talk on the phone while making apologetic glances? Thankfully I didn’t have to make a choice, another attendant came over to help them. Then they asked me, “What kind of oil do you use?”, which my brain translated into “hdfakhbvweroiuvxd asdjkfhsriuy vbxakljfhasdlh?”. It made that much sense. I hedged my bets and said ‘regular’. They could have filled my car with apple juice, I wouldn’t have known the difference.
I drove away feeling itchy. (That’s been a new stress reaction- hives. Which? Are charming. With my luck the next thing on the list will be full-on body rashes, with a touch of pink eye just for giggles). It’s not so much that I hate not knowing what’s going on at the gas station (and yes, I realize that knowing what type of oil my car gets is NOT like having to master quantum physics- this knowledge is within my grasp), it’s that I hate the idea that I’m re-enforcing the stereotype of the dumb blonde who knows nothing about cars. I might as well have twirled my hair around my finger and giggled like Paris Hilton at the gas station.
Perhaps I need to get that tutorial after all. And I may swing by and pick up my gas station attendant to come with, because I think he could use it too.