By mouth{JT}

As most know by now, I am a self-confessed Drama Queen, and that’s alright by me. I live quite happily knowing I am making a mountain out of a molehill and really have no wish to change. As with all DQs, I have quite a few obsessive compulsions, and again, me and my compulsions live quite happily together. They are almost comforting in a situation because I know exactly how that situation is going to play out, and one such situation is a regular occurance for me:

Putting gas in my car.

Most people would go down to the local service station, fill ‘er up, and go, but not me. No, Siree. First of all, I calculate when I will have to go, to the day. I do not do the random, “Oh my god, I’m low on petrol; I’d better fill up here,” kinda thing. I actually pass three gas stations on my way to my gas station. There, the boys know me, and they know to fill my car for me. I don’t ever do it because I know without a shadow of a doubt I will fuck it up. Yes, I will. So I go to a station that offers “full service”. A boy comes racing out, fills my car up,and I go inside to pay.

Well. Almost.

On my designated day, I am down to a quarter of a tank and I am getting nervous. I constantly watch the guage and start to sweat slightly if I go below that quarter line. Right. A deep breath, and off I go. I get to the station, watching said quarter line on my dashboard, and turn into the street. Oh, shit, fuck, and crap – somebody’s using my pump. Damn. Don’t they know number 9 is mine? No, I don’t go to any other pump because I know how to exactly park my car for number nine, so – I wait.

I wait in the car park across the road, to be precise. I pull up and wait, watching number 9 in my rear-view mirror. “Holy shit, what is that woman doing? Why is she taking so long? For fuck’s sake,” are words I’ve uttered more than once. Oh, okay, she’s on crutches. Fair enough. But listen, Mister – do you really need to wash your work van now? Shouldn’t you be off fixing someone’s whatever instead of scoffing a pie and washing your van? Sheesh, man, hurry up! All words I have muttered in company of the dog as we wait for number 9 to become free.

Finally!

Okay, now comes the tricky bit. With the speed of a Formula One Racing Car Driver, I am out of my parking spot, across two laners of traffic. and zipped into the spot in front of number 9. (Luckily, I am good at speed but occassionally someone will beat me – fuckers – and the whole waiting process starts over again.)

Me and number 9 wait no more than a minute, minute and a half, tops, before a guy comes out with a huge smile and we exchange plesantries as he fills my car. They know me well and so never have to ask if I want it filled completely. Of course I do. I don’t want to repeat this for at least another ten days. I then race inside to pay so I am ready by the time the pump finishes and have all my guff. Maybe get milk and a lottery ticket. More pleasantries exchanged as we wait for my card to be accepted, and I have that slight nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach. Of course, I know there’s money in the account, but what if the machine breaks down? Or if I’ve smudged the electronic strip on my card? I don’t know how, but it’s possible. Probably. They would have to siphon out my gas, because I’m not doing it. You do hear stories about these things – and then- oh, phew, its been accepted. Yay.

I leave with my stuff, making sure I profusely thank the lad who did the gas, beause I am truly grateful. I jump in and off I go, secure in the knowledge that I am not going to run out of gas – this week, at least.

Like I said at the start of this article, there is a lot of comfort in knowing exactly how a situation is going to play out.

Every week.