Family style injustice

I am a procrastinator. “Whatever is worth doing today will still be worth doing tomorrow,” is my creed.

In this regard, Cheryl is my polar opposite – but you knew this already, or you wouldn’t be reading this right now.

I wait until the last possible opportunity to fill up my tank at the gas station. With a four-cylinder Japanese import, two gallons in the tank is fifty miles of highway bliss. I’ll have you know I’ve only run out of gas once (God bless you, inventor of the dashboard “idiot light,” whoever you are).

Now here’s a typical errand-bound conversation, Kauffman style:
“John, could you stop and get some gas?”
“I guess, but isn’t the tank 1/3 full?”
“I’m a tank is 2/3 empty kind of gal, and besides, I may not get the chance to stop for gas tomorrow.”
“Doesn’t your car get 20 miles to the gallon?”
“I guess.”
“Then you’ve got somewhere in the neighborhood of 100 miles in the tank, and,”
“John, are you going to do what I asked you to do or what?”
“Yeah, but,”

Believe it or not, these conversations are rare. That’s part of the problem.

Cars have been interchangeable at our house for a month now. Combine the rarity of the above style conversation with my proclivity for procrastination and Cheryl’s gas pump assiduity, and you have the makings of a real problem. I can never remember to go to the gas station, I rarely need to.

Naturally, this is all Cheryl’s fault. If she were a little less diligent then I would have to pay more attention to fuel levels. I would have an interest – self preservation. As it stands now, I’m heading for a fall. There’s going to be a day when Cheryl isn’t around to fill up my tank and I’m going to end up stranded on the interstate in rush hour traffic.

What we need is a little compassionate conservatism, a little tough love, a little something to foster personal responsibility. Cheryl, you’re not allowed to drive my car anymore.

Yep, that ought to do it. Color me responsible.