Today I'm joining a Slice of Life hosted by Two Writing Teachers. Stop by for links to this amazing community of writers.
"The truck doesn't need gas so you can use them," he replied from the garage where he was busily tinkering with the mower, "but you should take a couple of the gas cans."
Somewhere from decades long gone my teenage self resurrected, "Ugh. The gas cans. Do I have to?" Realizing that sounded a bit ridiculous I added, "I don't want my new car to smell like gas." So maybe my car is two years old, but it still feels new to me.
"You don't have to," he gently nudged, "but every can is saving $5.00."
It's not fair when he appeals to my common sense side. In our area we earn points off gas by shopping at the grocery story. These points can then be used to save on gas purchases. With gas prices ever-climbing per gallon, this savings can be helpful at the pump. We had a dollar that had to be used as it was the last day of the month, but I did not want to hassle with the gas cans.
He had me. I knew he was right, but I didn't like it. "You are really pushing my OCD side," I moaned as I went to grab the cans. I decided to go inside to get trash bags to wrap around each in hopes that would decrease the likelihood of spilling gas in my car.
Dramatically placing the gas cans in my trunk wrapped in plastic garbage bags, I headed to the grocery store. It seemed with the hot temperatures I should fill up my car and the dreaded gas cans before shopping so I could get my cold items home in a timely fashion. Muttering to myself I popped the trunk and placed the cans on the ground. I filled the car and then started to fill the cans. I worked carefully to keep gas from overflowing out the top of the can.
Finally they were filled. I started to put the caps on and realized I needed to turn the spouts so they wouldn't spill. Geesh. This was challenging to do without getting gas on me so the muttering started again. As I heaved the cans into the trunk one of the cans began to spill pungent liquid out the top. Though I had wrapped the red plastic container in a green garbage bag, I was still worried about gas getting on anything in my trunk. I pulled the bag up quickly to keep it from getting on the carpet. "The sacrifices I make for my family," I grumbled. Knowing the truth was that I was motivated by saving a buck. Ok, five bucks. Two cans, ten bucks.
This really wasn't a big deal but somehow, at this moment, it felt like there was no greater sacrifice than filling the gas cans. I was taking one for the team. As I worked to get the cans situated so I could shop, I realized there was nothing OCD about my reasons for not doing this. Apparently, whatever girlieness I had left in my bones was coming out. Ewwww, the smell of gas. Ewwww, I didn't want to touch any part of those cans.
My grandma would have been proud. I was her first granddaughter after having three boys and I'm sure she had great hopes of dressing me up and teaching me all I needed to know to be the best girl ever. Unfortunately, it wasn't an easy task. For the most part, I gave up dolls by second grade and dresses before fourth grade ended. The most cooking I could muster back then was a grilled cheese sandwich. Getting me to brush my hair was a challenge. In my defense, I could have brushed it and would have looked the same. An attempt to teach me to sew just didn't work out.
You'll still rarely see me in a dress. I may never overly think about fashion. My makeup will likely always fit in a bag smaller than a child's hand. I don't mind getting dirty pulling weeds in the garden. I don't over think the decor of my home, but when it is time to load the gas cans in the back of the car the girlieness will rise to the top and this diva has to draw the line.
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