This title could be used to describe my life most times, but today we will just focus on my vehicle. I could not in good conscience let Jen, the Gas Gauge Police trash we people would might not be as vigilant in our gas monitoring as she is so once again, I have taken it upon myself to be the voice of the people.
I want to get the whole tire pressure thing out of the way first. Although at the time of this writing, two of my four tire lights are on, it in no way reflect on me as a person. Whenever the temperatures get below freezing, one or more of my lights go on. It happens every winter. As much as I hate the thought of adding air to my tires when it is -2º out, I do it. My tires have never been so low as to ride on the rims like Jen’s hubby. Mine are usually about 2-3 psi off. So this coincedence that my tire lights happen to be on when Jen was over is purely due to Mother Nature. OK. I’m done with that.
Now, why I will get out of the car in subzero temperatures to fill my tires, yet not fill my gas tank is an entirely different story. I find it particularly amusing that this subject causes Jen’s little Type A brain such stress yet its not a stress factor to me. I would think being a nerdy math genius, Jen would be impressed by the amount of math I do to make sure I don’t run out of gas completely. If Sue has 32 miles left in her tank and is traveling an average of 40 miles an hour, will she have enough gas to reach her home if her home is 22.5 miles away? Classic high school math. It should make her arm hair tingle.
I cannot explain why I do let my tank run so low. I’m sure my husband would love to know since he is blown away by the fact that I never have gas in the van. If I had to give a reason as to way I am so lackadasical about filling my tank, I’d have to blame my mother. Yes, that’s right…my mom. (Aren’t the moms always to blame in the end?)
When I was young, anytime we piled into the old Buick, there on the dashboard was a bright yellow sticky note with one word written on it – GAS! Apparently, the gas phenomenon must run in the family because my mother always had a reminder to get gas. If that was not enough, many times my mom would come home after work and there, across her hand written on autoclave tape, was one word – GAS! You knew the tank was really getting low when you saw the autoclave tape. So you see, clearly that little yellow note stuck prominently over the speedometer screaming GAS at me throughout my entire childhood had a chilling effect on me. My delicate young psyche was obviously deeply scarred by that note. So much so that I now have a gas filling phobia of my own.
The other day I went to lunch with my daughter, my mom, and my aunt. We piled into my mother’s car and she mentioned we were set with gas because she just filled up. My daughter happily pipes up for the back seat, “my mommy never has gas in her car”. Great, even my 8 year old is calling me on it. My mom found that quite funny until I pointed at the sticky note that was sitting above her speedometer at that very moment. “You see? It’s genetic. Which translates into it’s your fault.” Not so funny now, eh?
Today I sent this text to Jen just to stress her out a bit. 🙂
Oh and BTW, I finally stopped and filled my tank….with just a mere 37 miles left in the tank.