despite the title this post isn't x-rated. (cheeky monkeys! tee hee hee!)
my attitude at the Meijer gas station is the same as the superstore: get in, get out. however, my reasons differ; at the superstore I'm trying to get a painful chore, aka, grocery shopping, over with as soon as conceivably possible, sort of like ripping off a band-aid. I rip through the gas station more out of a basic belief in common courtesy, I am fully aware that people are waiting for my space and do my best to oblige. so, with this mindset, it never occurred to me that other people may have other motives for pulling into the self-serve station.
I've started pumping $2.46/gallon worth of gasoline into my odyssey. my brain is triggering my stomach to heave as I calculate my possible gas total. suddenly, my shock induced dry heaves are halted by a woman's voice just behind me, "excuse me, how do you do this?" I turn and see a woman waving her credit card trying to get the attention of the man on the other side of my pump. the man looks over at her, "you have to put your card in that slot, then pull it out." he says. "could you show me?" whimpers she. "sure" he walks over. "also, how do I get the gas in?" she asks in a "I'm-just-a-damsel-in-distress-that-needs-a-big-strong-man" coo.
"unbelievable," I mutter. forgive my cynicism but, since this isn't 1931, nor do we live in saudi arabia, and she can obviously read (an assumption, I know, but owning a car and a credit card supports it) how can she possbily not know how to pay for and/or pump gas?
he shows her the ins and outs of the gas pump and adds, "don't tell your husband this." "oh, I'm not married--divorced." she firmly states. "he always took care of these things." with a rogue-ish voice he says, "wow. you look so young to be divorced." she agrees, "yeah, it has been tough..." voice trailing pitifully. upon hearing this banter I stole a better look at the two. bingo! my dangling question answered and transparent Love Boat plot revealed. you see the woman was cute and the man good looking, driving an even more "hunky" car.
get it? good. now, no more interruptions.
after some more meaningful exchanges, I hear, "here's my business card, with my personal cell number. for the next time you need to get gas" he adds cleverly. "thanks," she giggles. I take my receipt, shaking my head in disbelief and earnestly trying to squelch the desire to sing the words to the Love Boat theme song.
pardon me Shakespeare but, frailty, thy name is man!