Why Women Hate The Gas Station

     I'm not a car savvy woman.  I figure I have gone above and beyond the expectations of most men in the realms of sports, schooling and general coolness and feel no great need to push the envelope by changing my own oil.  Please.
     When I was a little girl, I loved going to the gas station.  My mom would pull the blue wagon up to the pump, roll down the window and turn off the engine.  Magically, within moments there would be a friendly looking man in a blue shirt with his name on it.  They were always names like, "Ron" or "Joe." I would invariably develop a crush, for I cannot remember a time when I did not feel attracted to men.
     My mom would ask them to "fill it up" and they would start the gas pumping and then hop to and check the oil, coolant and washer fluid.  They would top things up, always being sure to show my mom the oil dip-stick to prove that she really did need that next quart of oil.  Then they would wash the window and bring out a credit slip.  I loved watching them fill it out and then swipe that giant block across it.  They always told us to have a nice day, and we did!
     Compare that to today.  I pull up to the pump.  There is no kind gentleman there to greet me.  I feel awkward but at least I know how to pump my gas.  So I have a microscopic amount of confidence.  As I slide my card into the slot at the pump I hear a voice. "How you doin today mam?" Dear God, no.
First of all, "mam?"  Are they serious.  They are like a year younger than me.  I'm instantly annoyed.  Why are they talking to me?
     "Hey." I say trying to be both cool and at the same time make it clear that if they continue this conversation they are taking their own life into their hands.
     "Have you heard about our product? Its a whiz-bang water-less window cleaner."
     My palms start to sweat.  Why?  I'm here to pump gas.  All I know is, pump the gas.  Fill the tank and get the hell out as fast as possible.  Why is this guy talking to me?  I hate this place.  This is a guy place and I am keenly aware that I am allowed limited temporary use of it.  What if he asks me a car question?  They all know I have no idea what I'm talking about.  They're going to make fun of me.
     "I'm not interested," I say with the cold look of death.
     "Ohhhh, UCDavis!"  How charming.  He's seen my bumper sticker.  "You alumni?"
      THAT'S IT! What do I look old?  I've used up all my car confidence on pumping the gas.  Now my pride is wounded.
     "No.  I'm not A-L-U-M-N-I."
     "Okay, take it easy now."
     I'm actually going to kill this kid.  I suddenly realize I haven't even started pumping the gas!  My card is not working at the pump.  I have to GO INSIDE.  The terror.  Now I have to walk past a table of these water-less window cleaner guys.  Guys.  There are suddenly men everywhere.  Literally, I'm the only woman in a packed gas station full of construction workers and painters and businessmen.
     What did I do?
     I marched into the store brandishing attitude in place of actual courage.  I'm pretty sure I scared every man within a 100 foot radius.  I paid for my gas, hid in my car while it pumped and left in a metaphorical cloud of dust.
     That is why women hate the gas station.