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The trouble with gas

No, not that kind of gas.

Fuel. Anyone else need to talk yourself into driving to the gas station? Do you cringe in terror as you drive, hoping you make it before you’re stranded on the side of the road? Do you claim victory as the needle on the gas gauge eeks up a fraction of an inch, thereby letting you know you can make it another fifteen miles or so?

No? You don’t? What’s your secret?

To be honest, I haven’t run out of gas in a long time. Learned my lesson years ago. But, I still detest putting gas in my car. My hubby, E, sometimes surprises me by doing it for me (have I told you he’s the best?). Really. To me, it’s as good as buying me flowers. But I was sitting in the parking lot at work this week and didn’t want to do it. I gripped the wheel and groaned in frustration, convinced that I would never get back the tortuous five minutes it would take me to fuel my car.

You’ll be happy to know I talked myself into it, mostly because I doubted E would be happy about driving an hour from HIS job to MY job to fill up my tank. So, I turned the key with trepidation, hoping I had enough fuel to get me to the corner gas station.

Spoiler: I made it. Barely. I may have jumped out and pushed the car the last few feet to the pump.

 

My reluctance to put fuel in my car is not laziness, though. I have REASONS.

Reason #1: I have other things to do, like going home and plopping down on the couch.

Reason #2: I want to do other things, like writing.

Reason #3: I don’t like it.

Okay, those aren’t convincing reasons. I’m not even fooling myself…

Anybody else not fuel up until you’re forced?

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