Macho Man

I was going to let this day slide without a post but felt a responsibility to my readers (all 5 of you) to report on my adventurous morning.

The day started off just like any other work day. Not a hitch. My movements were like clockwork and by 7 i was out of the house. On the road, the first stoplight appears and I debated whether to grab a doughnut or not. I just had one on monday so I decided to skip it. Right next to it was a gas station so I checked my smokes and I still had half a pack. The light turned green and I was off. On workdays across America, morning commutes always consisted of two kinds of headaches. The highway headache and the before-the-highway headache. Tens of cars line up to enter the highway from a single entry point with two lanes available going north; one of them is a carpool lane. Bottleneck doesn’t begin to describe it. Watching it from afar, it resembles a score of sperm cells dashing to that single egg cell trying to be that one lucky bastard. Did I mention that the architects created 3 entrances to the highway going south? So there I was, waiting my turn, when I notice an unusual light in on the dashboard. It was orange. My freakin’ gas was running low! I had completely forgotten to get gas the night before, and I completely forgot to get gas before I got in line. Now, anybody who knows stereotypical male drivers knows that our one bad habit is thinking that the gas tank never runs out. Much like the “woman are terrible drivers” stereotype, this isn’t always the case. True to form, I felt confident that I was going to make it to work 15 miles away on a tank of gas with the light on. As soon as I got on the highway, there are numerous ways to save gas while still running. The only thing that could possibly go wrong was a stop and go situation.

Remember the highway headache?

So there I was in the middle of rush hour traffic with an almost empty gas and a good 12 miles away. Every shift of the gear and step on the gas felt like my last. The line would inch oh so lower with every meter I traveled' and I wasn't going far. The only option I had was to get gas. D'uh. Cursing myself for not filling up before, I read the sign that says the next exit was a 1/4 mile away. Blast it, I wasn't even sure I would make it that far. The gas line had already fallen an inch or two below the red line. I was sweating humongous bullets and taking long drags. I positioned the car at the far left lane, halfway between the shoulder and road. Just in case the car gave up. Miraculously, I made it to the exit, traveled a mile and found my gas station.

This is probably the closest I've ever come to total male humiliation by running out of gas. Flat tires are attributed to dumb luck. We men know our gas tanks like the back of our hands. I've come close before, but nothing that made me nervous like this one. So, I think I learned a valuable lesson here. When in doubt, grab a doughnut.