Our electric blue beat up Ford Falcon has a deceiving petrol gauge.
No, actually. It just doesn’t bloody work.
Despite it telling me the tank was full, I found myself one morning, in the midst of peak hour traffic, trawling up a hill. Two year old twinlets in the back seat were getting agitated.
Just like dogs, they could smell utter panic.
Calling Mr Surfer to get his butt over and rescue us, I will never forget that last 800 metres to the petrol station.
Our heads abruptly jerking forwards and backwards in time to the car’s sputtering as it chugged slowly on its last fumes.
Just as we got to the intersection, it completely died.
Bondi Road commuters were not happy campers that morning.
Thank goodness for kind strangers who helped Mr Surfer push the heavy metallic beast up the driveway.
Fark. I NEVER want to go through that again.
Ever since, I’m constantly paranoid.
Whatever the tank says – empty, full, half way – if it’s been a couple of days, I won’t believe it.
I’ll fill it up, anyway.
My body and mind can be a bit like that stupid petrol gauge.
I accelerate with the pedal to the floor, getting all cocky with my super hero energy.
Then, I’m suddenly bone deep exhausted, wondering why the extra super crabby bitch Grace suddenly surfaces.
With the blubbering emotional version to follow suit.
Life’s been powering through at a highly turbo charged paced this past month and I’m starting to feel the tank is just above that red line.
While this is probably not a good thing, it’s common.
We all take on much more than we can nibble on.
But it’s an invaluable skill to be able to stop, pause, pull over and fill up before we’re just left with the dregs of our mental and physical energy.
Knowing that my schedule next month isn’t getting any quieter, I’m taking time out this weekend.
I’ve sadly cancelled social engagements (Sorry B and K. You too, Alison!) but I just know me.
My petrol gauge doesn’t work properly.
And I need to fix that.
Does your petrol gauge work? When was the last time you ran out of fuel?
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