The Misses seems to think that I have a problem filling up the tank in my vehicle (a Buick Rendezvous). Her view is apparently based on the fact that the low fuel light has come on a few times while she was riding with me. She has taken this threadbare anecdotal evidence and concluded that I’m constantly driving the Buick until there is nothing in the tank but fumes.
The very idea is simply preposterous, quite preposterous even. I’m pretty sure I recall stopping for a fill up when the needle was clearly not even touching the “E” on the gauge. And even if the recollection might have been the result of washing down a box of Zingers with half a bottle of Tequila, that’s not sufficient cause to besmirch my driving record.
But The Misses is not content to simply launch unwarranted (perhaps even unwingered) slanders against me. Oh no. She goes as far as to wager that I’m not even capable of refueling before the little amber light pops up. This time she has gone too far. It’s one thing to say I’m a dork or criticize Dylan for not being able to sing (and the fact that both criticisms are basically true doesn’t make them any less rude), but to question my ability to read fuel gauges and react with the proper refueling protocols is a direct affront to my honor which cannot be allowed to stand regardless of whether reacting results in unnecessarily long and awkward sentences.
So let it be known that I am picking up the gauntlet so imperiously thrown down before me. I vow to not allow my vehicle to suffer the indignity of the low fuel alert, not just for the next week or even the next two weeks but all the way through the month of November. The game is afoot, and The Misses will rue the day she issued her challenge (if she wasn’t already ruing it as she read this post).