Gas station anxiety claims another victim

Over the last several years, as I have begun to venture forth into the world without my parents, I have discovered a number of awkward social situations that do not allow me to fulfill my ultimate goal for every moment of my life, which is to leave a trail of highly impressed people behind me, praising my incredible poise and tact and efficiency.

In other words, when it comes to things like hairdressers, and restaurants, and gas stations, I do not exactly know how to… act right. And being who I am, this distresses me.

For example: the first time I ever pulled into a gas station by myself, I left my parents’ car running. The. Entire. Time. Naturally, nobody told me until afterwards that this could have caused my parents’ car (and me) to BLOW UP. Thanks for nothing, folks.

Needless to say, Gas stations and I have never quite gotten along since.

There was also the time, only a month or two ago, that I discovered my inability to pay for gas only after I had pulled into the gas station and rolled down my window and begun speaking to the business-like gas station attendant. That was a little humiliating.

Today, I had to visit the gas station again.

I always pick the wrong line at the gas station. My first step, every time, is to remind myself of which side my gas tank is on, and then to look for the shortest line of cars on the correct side of the gas pump. But then I have to ask myself: that line only has two cars, but they look like they could be there for a while—maybe that line with three cars is almost ready to move forward! Nah, I better stick with the shortest line.

And that, of course, is when every line except the one that I picked moves forward.

But today, as I approached the gas station, I noticed that the lane on the end, on the correct side of the gas pump, had no cars in it. But my first thought was not “What fantastic luck!”, it was, “Oh dear. I’m probably not supposed to use that lane.” Because that is the kind of thing that goes through my head at a gas station.

I bit the bullet and pulled into the lane. And after a few brief, terrifying moments in which I was sure no gas station attendant would look over to my forsaken corner of the concrete, a friendly-looking man ran up to my window. “Fill it with regular, please,” I said.

And then I do exactly what I always do when I am at a gas station waiting for my tank to be filled: nothing. I sat, staring out the window, lost in my own thoughts.

When friendly gas station man returned to the window to hand me my receipt, he said, “You’re kind of quiet, aren’t you?”

Oh no, I thought, I’m supposed to talk to them, too?

“Am I?” I said.

“Yes, you’re quiet. I bet you’re the quiet, shy one of your brothers and sisters, eh?”

“Well, anyone who knows me wouldn’t say I’m quiet!” I squeaked. I am not sure what came over me in that moment, but all of a sudden I felt the need to say something—anything—to this man that would prove I could make conversation. That is the only way I can explain why, out of nowhere, I said, “It kind of looks like it’s snowing, doesn’t it?”

“No Ma’am, it’s only a light rain.”

“Oh! Of course.”

And then I rolled up my window and drove away, before he could accuse me of being blind as well. In my defense: It did look a little slushy.

Posted on Sunday, March 25th, 2007 at 11:48 pm.
Belongs with: Silly Things.
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