I’m a procrastinator by nature and I’m always running late, so when I ran out of gas on Friday, putting me even further behind in my already chaotic schedule, I’ll admit, I was a little peeved. I know most people would think I was to blame for this occurrence, which made me stressed out on an already stressful day, but it’s simply not true. Those who should be held responsible are automobile makers, gas cans and gas stations everywhere.
If I were still on my frivolous lawsuit kick, I would sue all three entities and collect millions of dollars that would be awarded to me for my pain, suffering and mental anguish. However, since I’m sure I’ll be quite cozy living off the settlement that I will no doubt receive from the lawsuit I discussed last week, I guess that won’t be necessary, but it is obvious that I was set up for failure.
I’m sure you’ve noticed the way cars work. No, not the actual mechanics – the little gas gauge thing. For the first half of a tank, the needle barely moves, but by the time you get to that last quarter tank, it’s like someone is siphoning gas out of your car with a hose. So, when I saw a had 1/16 of a tank of gas and realized I needed to get from my house to Georgetown and then back to Norwich, of course, I thought I’d be fine; who wouldn’t?
I’ve always been an overly cautious person, so even though I already had 1/16 of a tank left, I decided I would fill up, but when I pulled into my gas station of choice and pumped for five minutes only to achieve getting one gallon of gas from the pump, I decided not to waste another 70 minutes trying to fill the tank, instead I chanced it and drove home. At my house, I again used caution, and tried to fill the car with the reserve of gas we keep in the can in my garage.
I didn’t realize that the gas can was built by Nazis with a sick sense of humor. The gas poured out of the can, only not from the nozzle. It spewed out of invisible holes and instead of going into the car, it spread all over my favorite shoes and my new pants.
It seemed like fate was telling me to throw caution, and my ruined pants, to the wind. So I packed up my car and drove to Georgetown’s Amish Country.
After driving directly by a gas station that wouldn’t be open for a couple of hours, I was feeling pretty good about my decision. That was when my car started to spit and sputter and slow to a stop. Being a person with excellent manners and good moral fiber, I’m sure I uttered the string of angry obscenities in a sweet and peaceful tone, but for some reason, I still was unable to hitch a ride back into town on a horse and buggy. For some reason, now when I pass my Amish neighbors they run from my car, making the sign of a cross, but I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.
My point is sometimes things aren’t what they seem. Sometimes a gas can, isn’t a gas can but a torture device, designed to ruin your best pair of shoes. Sometimes a gas station isn’t a gas station, but just a station, because they’re all out of gas, and sometimes when entirely avoidable things go wrong it’s not due to sheer incompetence, but a combination of factors setting you up for failure.