The Devil is Wearing an Overcoat...........

......... because hell has surely frozen over.

Why, you ask?

Because I (Clear Lake City-girl that I am) have (on this gorgeous day) pumped my first tank of gas.

(Pardon me while I check on my husband and make sure his skin is still peachy-pink and not royal blue.)

Actually, my husband was with me this morning at the gas station. We were on our way to the post office and the supermarket, in his car, and he told me that he had to stop for gas on the way. He jokingly asked me if I would like to try pumping the gas on my own (as opposed to the last time we were there, and I just watched him pumping gas into my car).

"Sure!" said I. And my husband let his foot press down on the gas pedal before I changed my mind. As the saying goes-- "be true to your word," and I was. I put the credit card in the machine, touched all those buttons, got the nozzle into the tank (that nozzle-hose thing is heavier than I thought) and I stood there looking like I knew what I was doing while the gas went into my husband's car.

One thing you have to watch out for--- the nozzle can drip, either going into the tank or coming back out, so you have to be careful. I didn't realize that, and one drop of gas barely missed my pink sandals (cute magenta-pink leather sandals with rhinestones, which looked great with my pale pink capris, by the way). That lone drop of gas thankfully landed on the pavement next to my shoes. I don't remember the name of the gas station, or the price of the gas, or even the color of the gas pump, but I do remember every detail when I put an outfit together. (More proof of my city-girl status.)

I must say that I was impressed with myself this morning. Not only that I remembered how to use the gas pump, but that I was able to get the nozzle into the tank without dropping it or scratching the car. When we got back into the car, the first thing I did was take one of those "Wet & Dry" towels out of my purse to clean my hands.

My husband saw me wiping my hands on the moist towel and asked me if I got any gas on my hands. "Absolutely not... but who knows how many people have touched that nozzle-thing and those buttons... and who knows where their hands have been." (More proof....)

When my dad taught me how to drive, he wanted to show me how to check the oil, put air in the tires, pump gas, and change a flat. I was 16 at the time, and I told him that I didn't need to know all those things because the men who worked at the gas stations took care of the first three things, and if I ever got a flat tire, then surely some nice man would pull over and change the tire for me. ("Besides that, daddy, what if I break a nail on the tire?" -- I can still hear myself asking him that.) Little did I know that 37 years later, I'd be living in a town with only one gas station that still offers full-service at the gas pumps.

And hopefully, living where we do, I would think that there really would be a nice man who would stop and help me with a flat tire. (I drove one wheel of my car into a drainage ditch on a country road about six years ago, and two men in a pickup truck stopped to help pull the car out. They wouldn't take more than a thank you for their trouble and they tipped their hats to me before getting back into their truck.)

I should ask my husband to show me how to check the oil, put air in the tires and change a flat on my Thunderbird. But I'll wait a while. He's still recovering from my gas-pumping adventure of this morning.

I should also call my dad and tell him that I've learned how to pump gas. But he's 86 now and if he turns blue up north while we're on the phone, I won't be able to help him. Men.... they just don't react well to change.