Hey, friend -
I was leaning against the side of my rented Fiat 500, fueling it up so the nice people at the DFW Budget didn't hit me for $9.99/gallon.
After two full days of teaching in-person workshops, I was spent.
Which is probably why it took three seconds too long to realize the auto-stop on the gas pump had failed and was soaking the entire left side of my body in fuel.
And I do mean soaking.
Once I got the nozzle turned off and shoved back into the pump, my first (pointless) instinct was to grab the windshield washer squeegee thing and take a swipe at the side of the car.
My second instinct was to march into the station, positively fuming—both figuratively and literally.
“Pump 7 has a faulty auto-stop, and it just drenched me in fuel,” I stammered at the attendant.
“I didn’t know the pump was faulty.”
“Clearly. I thought you might like to sop up the lake of gasoline and maybe take the thing out of service.”
“Sorry for the inconvenience.”
Inconvenience, dude said.
I stood there blinking at him as four quite specific outcomes bubbled up in my anxious brain:
- There’s a good possibility that when I start the car it’ll go up in a ball of flame.
- Even if I survive the blast, I don’t think State Farm will be a good neighbor on this deal.
- Even if there’s no fire at all, TSA’s going to arrest me for trying to board a plane as a human bomb.
- Even if I manage not to get arrested, every passenger on my flight is going to hate my guts because I smell like I’ve been bathing in gasoline.
I was wholly unprepared for what actually happened next.
After successfully returning the Fiat and hopping the shuttle to the terminal, I had almost convinced myself that maybe I wasn’t all that stinky. The ticket agent brought me back to reality.
“Do you smell gasoline?”
“Oh, that’s me,” I said, trying not to burst into tears. “I got soaked at the gas station.”
“Oh. Oh wow. Okay. Well, ummmm, you’ll be all right.”
At which point, I began to sweat. And there is nothing like a nervous, sweaty, middle-aged blond with a dab of gasoline behind each ear.
Why it didn't occur to me to change clothes before I handed my suitcase to the ticket agent, I'll never know. But it didn't OK? Let's blame it on the fumes.
I continued to sweat through the security line, wishing the teenagers behind me would give me some freaking personal space already, ignoring the “Do you smell gas?” comments, and sniffing the air with the same confused-concerned expression everyone else was wearing.
You may be relieved to know that, for the sake of my fellow travelers, I decided I was going to have to buy new clothes. By the time I made it through security, I'd researched my retail options.
Option, that is—singular.
Dallas Cowboys for Her.
Dallas Cowboys for Her by Pink.
Oh goodie.
I explained my predicament to the kind woman behind the cash register, who helped me put together an absurdly expensive ensemble from a brand I positively loathe. Blue pajama pants with COWBOYS down the left leg (but nothing on the rear end, thank heavens). Blue sweatshirt with DALLAS COWBOYS across the front and PINK along the back neckline.
The blues didn't match. Everything was too big. The lettering on the pants and shirt were different colors. And I was still wearing my Converse, which were spared in the melee. I looked ridiculous.
As I walked to my gate, I overheard a middle-age businessman comment to his buddy, “Now, that woman’s a Cowboys’ fan.”
And that’s how I narrowly avoided death, skirted TSA, wasted $200, and became a Cowboys fan in 90ish minutes.
Pep Talk #012: You've survived everything that's ever happened to you.
Sometimes, things go well. Other times, a faulty stop valve sprays us with gasoline an hour before a flight. Or a client declines a proposal we thought was a sure thing. Or a customer leaves us an unnecessarily harsh review. Or our product launch goes badly. Or sales slow way down.
I'm not about to go all toxic positivity on you, but I will say this: If you're soaked in gasoline (or whatever), there is a solution, it will get better, and eight years from now you will have a story to tell.
You've got this—whatever this is,
Kelley
P.S. A version of this story first appeared on my blog back in 2015. I wrote it while sitting at the gate, moments after changing into The Outfit. There's a photo of the get-up (and of me with longer hair). You can see it here ----> Badly Neglected Blog.
P.P.S. I wore the hell out of those pants for years. But I haven't purchased a single thing from Pink since.
