Day 45: E is for Enough? I don't think so.

 

The greatest lie you can tell yourself is, “I don’t need to get petrol now. I’ll get it in the morning.”

It started off so innocently. I glanced at the fuel gauge, saw it flirting dangerously close to the big E, and thought, It’s fine. I know my car. There’s easily enough to get me home and to the station tomorrow.
That tiny voice of reason in the back of my head politely cleared its throat—Are you sure? But I silenced it with the confidence of someone who’s been burned by their own laziness before and learned absolutely nothing.

Fast forward to this morning: I had places to be, people to see. I started up my car and was immediately greeted by a blinking warning light that screamed, “I told you so.” It informed me that I had 14km of petrol left, which was technically fine—it’s only 11km to the nearest station in Ballivor. Also, my car’s a hybrid, so it switches to electric every few kilometres. I’d get there. Probably.

The first few kilometres were uneventful. Then I noticed the electric mode wasn’t kicking in Was this because the journey had only started and so the battery was too low to kick in? Did I even know how that worked? Absolutely not. I’d never been in this position before..

The petrol range began to nosedive.

I started driving like a nun with a hangover—hands clenched, eyes ping-ponging between the road and the dashboard. Radio off. Air con off. I wouldn’t even breathe too deeply in case it used extra fuel.

And then, like an oasis rising from the tarmac, I saw it—the petrol station. I was going to make it, and I still had 4km of petrol left! I let out the breath I’d been holding and—my heart nearly stopped. I blinked a few times to clear my vision, but no… I wasn’t imagining it.

The two rear petrol pumps were boarded up. And the front ones? Being actively excavated by a digger tearing up the forecourt.

Panic surged up in my throat. What now? There’s no other station in Ballivor. The nearest one is in Kinnegad—10km away. I didn’t have enough fuel to get home, never mind Kinnegad. Maybe the electric would kick in fully if I ran out of petrol? But I couldn’t be sure. And I definitely couldn’t risk it.

I pulled cautiously onto the forecourt and crept around to the other side of the pumps…

THERE WAS ONE WORKING PUMP.

I could’ve screamed with relief. I leapt out of the car, ignored the pounding digger, and filled that tank to the brim.

On the way home, I made solemn vows to myself. I’d never cut it that close again. I’d be responsible. Proactive. The kind of person who fills up at a quarter tank.

Until next week. When I’ll lie to myself all over again.