Pumping Gas

Jane felt her heart beating as fast as a runaway train. Her sweaty palms were about to cause a flood. She grabbed her phone , began a text and then stopped. She slid out of her car and stared at the monstrous gadget in front of her. She thought about her goal to fight her fears and learn new things. When she told her friends at work that she never pumped gas in her life, some laughed. 

“ You’re joking, right?” said Melinda as Cassie said, “You’re 45 years old and never pumped gas, oh my God!”  

The only friend who showed compassion was Sheryl, who was her cheerleader. “You can do this Jane! Think of all the money you’ll save by not having someone pump your gas for you!” 

Sheryl even offered to go with her and show her how but Jane didn’t want to seem like a baby so thanked her and declined her offer.

Here she was. By herself. Ready to pump gas.

Jane knew she was different than most people. She went into a panic every time she had to do something new.  There were certain things she excelled at and certain things she was mentally challenged at, like anything that involves hand coordination.  She was a great writer and poet, incredibly organized, and kind and thoughtful. On the other hand, every time she cooked, she burned the food, and once even caused a fire. She couldn’t sew, paint, or wrap presents. Forget about shoveling snow or mowing the lawn. She would rather jump into a lion cage than attempt one of those horrible tasks. She couldn’t do things that most normal people were able to do without blinking an eye. She  grew up with parents who did everything for her. A blessing when she was growing up but a curse now since she never learning how to do simple things. She never married, and never had children. Her life involved reading, writing, and working in an accounting firm. She always ordered take-out. She loved sesame chicken at the local Chinese restaurant. Her cleaning lady cleaned her house twice a month. She was content until she turned forty five and decided things had to change. And here she was at the gas pump. The first on her long list of things she had to learn by the time she turned fifty.

She approached the gas pump, and thought of the time she went to IKEA, bought supplies, and tried to put together a dresser once she was home. The directions were sprawled out on her floor. She followed them explicitly. She even hammered. When she was finished, the dresser collapsed, which in turn, made her collapse in tears.  Jane eliminated the thought of the disastrous dresser from her brain. She decided to be positive. She could do this.

The past month, Jane prepared herself by reading articles and watching videos on how to pump gas. 

She now removed the gas cap, inserted her credit card, and lifted the pump nozzle. Piece of cake!  Jane was so glad she watched 25 videos on youtube instructing her on how to do this. Wait, what was the next step?  She couldn't remember if she chose the gas grade first or inserted the nozzle into the car first. Jane lifted the nozzle with her clammy hands and hit the gas grade.  She then squeezed the trigger and gas started shooting everywhere. Damn, she was supposed to put the nozzle in first, and then squeeze the trigger. She stopped squeezing the trigger but her new shoes had gas on them, and now her hands were a mixture of sweat and gasoline. And she no longer smelled of lavender body lotion but of good old fashioned gasoline. She glanced around in a panic.  There was a young pimply teenager pumping gas across the way. He smirked and said, “need help maam?”   

I am not a maam, Jane wanted to scream. Instead she falsely smiled and said with fake confidence, “I’ve got this, thank you!”  

Jane felt tears well up.  Why am I such a loser?  I can’t even pump gas. Why can’t my prince charming come and save me right now? Pump my gas and put me on his white horse and we ride into the sunset together? No, I am not going to rely on a man to save me. I am going to do this.

She took a deep breath, put the nozzle in, squeezed, and nothing happened. Jane bit her lip and crinkled her nose as she stared at her gas tank. Why wasn’t it working now? 

“You messed it up maam, I think you need to start over or go to a different pump,” said the same teenager as before. Man, he looked around 14. How young do they give licenses out these days?

Jane felt like she couldn’t breath. She felt like a reject from another planet who didn’t belong here. She was crying at the pump, and thought  how humiliating it was that a grown woman can’t pump gas and is crying like a baby over it. Now another car pulled up behind her and a woman who looked like someone's friendly grandmother, who was close to 90 with short, gray hair, and a pleasant expression said, “ Dear, are you okay?”

“ This pump isn’t working and —-” Jane babbled when the woman cut her off.

“Oh, I always have trouble with that one. Try a different one.”

Jane wanted to get back in her car, and drive to her familiar, full service gas station and have Hugo,  her buddy, pump her gas. But, no. She had a goal and she had to do this.

Jane thanked the woman, got back in her car, turned around to a different pump, got out and breathed. She mentally imagined all the steps in her head.

She paid with a credit card, removed the nozzle,  put it in the tank, squeezed and bravo. It worked. She pumped gas. “ Woohoo!” she exclaimed and did a little dance. The woman looked at her and said,” it’s the little things in life, right?” 

Jane smiled, and said, “You bet!”