I went to a yoga class tonight about 4 miles outside of Winchester. It's all country here. Except for the bypass, every single road is a two lane country road, lined with trees, birds, and roadkill. I'm driving my mom's car while I'm here, since she can't. Somehow, somewhere along the line, I cleverly deduced that the gas gauge was broken.
Guess what? It works just fine!!! I know because it's been on empty for a couple of days and–gasp–I ran out of gas right outside of town on the way back from yoga. I was wondering why it took so long to start lately. What a dummy.
Fortunately, I can see a gas station about a quarter a mile up the road. Heck, not a fer piece at all. I hike to the station and ask the guy if he has a gas tank I can borrow. "No," he says, "but we have one for sale." For some reason, it ticks me off that he doesn't have one I can borrow and I hike out. Such a dummy.
The next gas station is another three quarters a mile up the road, on the bypass. So I hike there, passing plenty of roadkill which is, thankfully, really small and really old so not too gross. (You didn't really need to know that, did you?) Anyway.
On the way to the gas station, with cars whizzing past me, one driver yelling something that I'm sure was not complimentary, I'm thinking I'll probably have to buy a tank anyway, fill it with gas, then lug the darn thing all the way back to the car, hopefully not becoming roadkill on the way. What a really outrageous dummy.
I rack my brain trying to think of people I know in Winchester, where I grew up, who still live here and might be able to help me out. I will try to work in how I almost died so they can't refuse me. The only person I can think of is an old boyfriend, Steve Cope. I briefly wonder, while I'm dialing 411, if he'll be offended that I finally called him while I was in town because I need a ride to the gas station. But, hey, we were really, really, really in love when I was sixteen, almost 40 years ago, so I'm sure he won't mind.
I dial. I get his machine. I leave a message. I keep walking. Five minutes later, ojala, he calls back! Fifteen minutes later, he arrives (in his pickup, of course) and we greet like we saw each other yesterday. Isn't life funny like that?
He graciously took me to get gas, then back to my car. We hugged, made plans to keep in touch and got in our cars. He even waited till I got my car started and drove away. Yeah, life is funny.
Here's more proof of my dumminess: the first thing I said when I saw him, after he got out of his easy chair to come rescue me, was, "Oh my goodness, you are old!" Fortunately, he sorta chuckled at this. I'm surprised he didn't point: I just came from a sweaty yoga class wearing old, stained, torn exercise clothes I wore fifteen years ago when I taught yoga, I've been walking almost a mile in 85 degrees, my skin is still all saggy from being swollen like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, I sound like Edith Bunker (Steve and I met singing in a local talent show), I'm practically bald and the remaining strands are wild, silver, dirty and stuck to my head. And I have the nerve to make a joke about how he looks! Nice.
I'll bet he drove off SO thanking his lucky stars that he didn't wind up with me. When I have all my hair back and yoga has toned me all up, I'm going to send him a picture so he'll be wistful and think maybe he just imagined how that adorable young girl turned into such a wacky old woman. Yeah, that's just what I'll do. That's not dumb at all.