Fuel.

Fuel.

This afternoon, I finished up work early and ran my intervals training (Fartleks) around where I work. Then, I had a few hours before I was expected at Sarah's house, so I had big plans to buy shoes, eat, and take a bath. However, just as I pulled into the parking lot at the shoe store, I heard the voicemail beep on the phone and realized I had missed a call or two. It was Erik, both times.

I called him back, and he informed me he had just run out of gas. In the Prius. Ran. Out. Of. Gas. In. A. Fucking. Hybrid.

Clearly, I still have mixed feelings about the event. On the phone, I told him to start walking towards the gas station and I'd head that way and pick him up or meet him there. I didn't tell him I was outside the shoe store.

At this point, I hung up the phone, turned off the car and walked into the shoe store. This, if nothing else, is clear evidence of my awful personality. I quickly located the pair I had my eyes on, found my size and quickly paid for them without trying them on, and then got back in the car as if nothing had happened. What shoes? I was driving this whole time!

It was actually really embarassing standing on the side of the road filling up the Prius gas tank with one of those little red jugs. I felt like I'd let down the entire population of Prius owners. Non-Prius owners were driving by and surely laughing. Possibly dozens of families have now written off the Prius because it's obviously not as fuel efficient as you want it to be.

In addition to the shame, it was also slightly frustrating. It turns out that my husband not only ignores the blinking "E" on the gas gauge and the "!!!ADD FUEL!!!" beeping message, he also lacks several life skills, like using the little red jugs for when you run out of gas. In a rare turn of events, quite possibly the only time in my 25+ years of existence, I was completely prepared with paper towels and lighting, and completely skilled for the task at hand.

"Just go away and get my headlamp out of my purse in the backseat and hold that for me or something," I said, not realizing until now, as I write this, that Erik would also see my new clandestine, assistance-delaying shoe purchase in the backseat. He hasn't mentioned it. I don't think I would either, were I a husband who just jeopardized the health of our shiny new car because I forgot the fuel light came on and then had my wife do all the work.

I'd totally let her enjoy her shoes in peace.