Long after most ďserviceĒ stations stopped pumping gas for their customers, I still sought out the ones that had a full-serve pump. Like driving a stick shift, I had tried pumping my own gas once and didnít do very well, so I gave up. (Unlike the dramatic case of the stick shift, I didnít almost run over a dog pumping gas, though.) Even later on, after the stations started charging more for full serve, I kept seeking them out, driving miles out of my way to avoid doing it myself.
Years ago, early in my career with The Company, I drove to Napa to work every day. That was forty miles each way, five days a week. Then we got a portable computer that I could pack up. I brought it home on Thursday night and worked at home on Friday. Then I worked at home two days a week, then three. Eventually the Boss closed the Napa office (his ex-girlfriend owned the building), and I worked at home full time. No more commuting, and much less seeking out of gas stations.
Eventually, with Suzanneís help, I got over my self-serve phobia. I now pump my own gas with utter glee and abandon, a situation made even more palatable when the Boss offered me a company gas card a few months ago. Itís not the pumping that bothers me these days as much as the getting in and getting out of the station that I have to use to take advantage of the company card. Itís cramped, always crowded, and filters out onto a busy street thatís even busier in December. So I still put off my refueling trips until (a) a day when I have time to spare, and (2) the last possible minute.