If You Smell Gas, Its Me...

It started as any other day normally would. Woke up with my pillows surrounding me from all directions, opened up my dark gray curtains to let the happy sun awaken my day, and headed towards to the bathroom to be relieved...

----Yes. We will become that acquainted with each other, its part of the deal. 'Member?----

...and then I begin my normal observation of myself by staring at my reflection in the mirror, completely natural thinking, "Yep, this is as good as its gonna get". I then continue to my room to hang out with Joyce Meyer for a little bit while I get dressed for work, all while hearing my brother squeal like a banshee as he burns his forehead with a flat iron.

A typical day, nothing special.

Except, today was a little different. Because of an unexpected dream that left me somewhat unsettled, I just had a sense that things would be a little off today. Sometimes I can feel it coming. Like when bad weather would be festering in the atmosphere and my dog would lay on the floor and not move even if I prodded her with a treat; she just knew that something was up and if it meant instinctively ducking on the ground like a bank robbery was about to take place then she'd do it.

Yes. Just like that.

This morning, I could just feel the wind moving in such a way that my spidey-senses went on full alert and I could do nothing but wait, in uncomfortable anticipation, of what ever strange things were coming my way. But I continued with my normal routine and decided that if I was going to have to kung fu my way through the next 24 hours, then I might as well splash an extra helping of Dior on my neck and wear some heels for extra leverage. We've previously established that smelling nice makes me feel good, but I will say that I sprayed a little too liberally and left the house not wanting to be around myself for a while until the power of the potion faded. I hopped in my car, with Confidence in the passengers seat, and exited my neighborhood to find the nearest gas station to fill her up.

And there it was.

I arrived at the local Race Trac, awkwardly got out of my car (heels are no fun), check card in hand, and discovered that I was too far from the pump to actually reach the nozzle into my tank.

So...

I awkwardly got back into my driver's seat just as awkwardly as I had originally gotten out and drove up a bit to allow the nozzle to make friendly with my car, all the while not paying attention to the truck load of laborers watching me the entire time, having a lovely view up my dress--which was now flying wildly all over the place in the wind.

Hmmph.

I proceeded to use my check card, only to discover that I had no idea how to operate the particular gas pump I was at. Every button seemed to be stuck, and no matter how many times I click 'enter' the stinking debit wouldn't go through.

Finally my card approved and I began to feed 'old Betsy with highly expensive love juice known as gasoline. Now me and gasoline go way back. I remember being a child and loving the smell so much that I asked my mom if I could have my own perfume made to smelled like it. I was a strange child. I also enjoyed the smell of sharpie's. As of recently, however, maybe I've just been around one too many landscapers to find the smell utterly revolting and dislike filling my tank so much that I avoid it at all costs.

Lets get back to my story before I lose you.

I was nearly finished, hispanic men whistling away, when I decided to make the sorry mistake of tipping off my tank. I do this occasionally and was fully aware of the risk that I would be taking. Low and behold, you guessed it, a gushing tidal wave of highly flammable liquid shot out right at me onto my pretty new dress and all over the side of my car, while the man filling up across from me couldn't help himself but shoot a "you're such a girl/I want to help you but I'm not going to" look as I screamed in disbelief of my now wreaking predicament.

Whats worse is that my skin started to tingle in a very unhappy way, making me react even more helplessly, thus confirming the disapproving glances from the not-so-gentlemanly gentleman that got into his car and drove off, leaving me soaked and hormonal.

My first reaction was to call my mom. For all I knew, I was about to catch on fire at the slightest movement and if it meant saying my last goodbye's, then now was the time to do so. But, alas, she did not answer. And neither did any of the other individuals that I called to see if friction on the seat of my car could cause me to spontaneously combust. I finally came to the conclusion that I could not die from having gasoline on my clothes. That is, unless, I lit myself up with a match or ran past the smoking section of the parking lot, purposely catching cigarette embers with my skirt. That type of suicide would be impossible. And if it were, then completely ridiculous.

So now I am sitting in my office. My new co-worker friend, JR, didn't seem to mind my funk too bad as we chatted about life and love and God and stuff. But now I am trapped in a smelly dress that causes me to apologize to every person that comes within 10 feet of me. I have now got it down pat:

"If you smell gas. Its me."