Gasoline isn’t the cheapest or best-smelling perfume

It was the moment I dreamed of forever. The day the thin slice of plastic with my squinty-eyed photo was handed to me, I felt cooler than ice.  That’s right, the satisfaction of knowing that I had my license months before any of my friends gave me an instant ego. I never thought that just hours later, I would be standing at SuperAmerica, covered in gasoline.

There I was, cruising around on a warm Friday night, feeling like Brad Pitt had just proposed to me. So when I finally cruised into Super America to get gas, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that anything could go wrong. However, just moments later, I was covered head-to-toe in gas after an aggressive struggle with the pump for some fuel.

How that just had happened, I had no idea. Apparently, pointing the gas nozzle at your face while pressing on the lever, and continuing to hold it down, wasn’t the greatest idea. There I stood, for several minutes, wet, flustered, and confused. Somehow I did not feel so cool anymore. With my eyes tearing up (I swear it was just from the burn of the gasoline), I marched into the station to pay the $6.08 that literally served no purpose except to drench me with embarrassment. It turns out people don’t love the smell of a girl doused in gas because all the customers in the store made a polite, but hasty run away from me. The moment I walked up to the salesclerk to pay, he gave me one of those dang-you-clearly-made-a-fool-of-yourself looks, but didn’t even make a comment as I slid some damp coins across the counter.

Making no effort to dry myself, I hopped in my car, empty tank and all, and somehow got myself home. In a matter of twenty minutes, I went from being the happiest girl in the world to dripping with car fuel. To simply put it, I just felt lame.

It wasn’t until an hour later, when my mom sat down to console me and inform me that once my brother had sprayed himself and her with gas that I began to cheer up. For now I knew that spraying gas all over me had nothing to due with my lack of driving knowledge and skill. My family was simply cursed with bad filling-up-the-car-with-gas genetics––something that clearly was out of my control.

Sarah Koller, staff writer