This afternoon, as I drove into Sacramento for a haircut, the gas light went on. I felt a surge of rage at Andrew. Filling the car with gas is a man’s job. It’s Andrew’s job. How dare he let me set out for the hair salon with no gas in the car? Wasn’t he thinking? Doesn’t he love me?
I considered calling Andrew from the highway. But then the baby kicked a few times, and I thought—no. I could do it. I could fill the car with gas myself. So I did, for the first time in about two years, marking the second time I’ve filled our Volvo with gas. (The first time I did, two years ago, I had to call Andrew from the gas station because I couldn't figure out how to open the gas tank. It requires a key. This time, no phone call was required.)
I know, I know. For all of you “real” drivers reading this blog, I know that’s crazy. And I suppose I’m a “real” driver now too, regularly getting on the highway by myself to go to the dentist or hairdresser, or to drive out to the airport. Still, it’s just the way things work between me and Andrew, and I felt a sense of achievement at having successfully gone to “man town,” which is where Andrew’s husbandly duties (like washing the car, or taking the car to the shop, or killing bugs) reside.
Later, when I came out of the salon and checked my messages, I found a frantic voicemail and a frantic text from Andrew, alerting me to the fact that the car was almost out of gas and saying I should call him immediately. Little did he know it had all been taken care of as I tried to set a good, independent example for the baby.