I am moving to Pennsyltucky soon. There, I said it. Although this is something I’m actually pretty psyched about, there is one thing that, as a native Jersey broad, I will never get used to: pumping my own gas.
It doesn’t so much have to do with laziness as it does the completely ridiculous ordeal I seem to endure every single time I need gas. Which is a lot; PA is a big state. It goes a little something like this:
The scene: Wawa self-service gas station, 7:45am.
I pull into the parking lot, scanning the gas pumps for an empty spot. This particular gas station is huge, so there should be no problem finding one. But for some reason, every spot is taken. I pull up behind decrepit looking Taurus and wait my turn. After about a minute, I realize that not only have I not seen anyone pump any gas into this car whatsoever, the person sitting in the driver’s seat appears to be either asleep or dead.
I leave this Weekend at Bernie’s scenario behind, and look for empty pump. There are none, so I pull up behind a red pick-up truck and wait my turn once again. The driver is painstakingly wiping away every speck of dirt from the truck’s windows, as one would wipe away the tears of a crying child. He cleans the windshield wipers, the door handles, but it isn’t until he begins lovingly buffing the rims that I decide to try my luck at a different pump.
I know I’ve already completely screwed myself by not sticking with one pump, and at this point I know I would’ve been better off waiting for Weekend at Bernie’s. Someone would have to notice there’s a dead guy in there eventually, right? As I’m circling the parking lot again, I notice that most of the owners of these cars are not pumping gas; they’ve just left their cars at the pump so they can go into Wawa and bullshit with the shim behind the register for 45 minutes. Don’t get me wrong; I have no problem with trannys, I just don’t consider them to be a part of my morning routine.
At last, I’ve found an empty pump. I get out of my car and prepare to fight with my gas cap. As usual, it’s stuck. I stand there pulling and jerking it around for so long that it would probably appear to others that I was the shim. It makes a cracking noise most likely indicating that I broke it, but I don’t care. I swipe my credit card, and pray this particular machine works. If it doesn’t, I’ll have to go inside and make an educated guess as to how much gas I need, and if I forget the number of the pump I’m at I’ll have to awkwardly excuse myself and run outside to find out what it is.
Luckily, that is not the case. I hit the unleaded button, remove the filthy nozzle thing from its home, and begin the awful process of pumping my own gas. If it’s a cold day, I’ll be imagining which fingers I’ll have to get amputated from standing in the cold for several minutes while my ginormous gas tank guzzles down its fill of petrol. When the gas finally stops flowing, I remove the nozzle and throw it back into its holder. I almost never put it back the right way, and I almost never consider the possibility that a mistake like this could ignite the entire Wawa.
That’s why, in New Jersey, we have professionals for this sort of thing.
