Half full

For most of my life, I’ve been a “glass-is-half-empty” kind of person.

Maybe because as a working journalist for more than three decades I became rather jaded covering the news. The daily grind turned this once idealistic college graduate into a hard-nosed, cynical reporter.

Half full or half empty. Pick one. You are what you are.

Yesterday, heading to the dentist for a routine teeth cleaning, I was daydreaming about how much I loved driving my 1965 Mustang with the top down on crisp autumn days, with visions of fresh apple cider and warm, cinnamon-sugar doughnuts dancing in my head.

I wish fall could last forever.

Then the car lurched forward as if I’d run over a family of squirrels. (Full disclosure: I have done so and know the feeling.)

But I was driving on Royal Oak’s stretch of Woodward Avenue, not on a residential street in Grosse Pointe Woods. There can’t be squirrels living on Woodward.

Poor Mustang Sal (not Sally, thanks) was in distress. Turning the steering wheel was nearly impossible, and the accelerator was useless. I coasted around the corner, made an immediate right behind the dental office and landed on the lowest point of the entire parking lot over a storm sewer.

Perfect.

What had just happened?

At 54 years young, Sal runs better than I do. She’s not fast, but she looks good, something we should all strive for, I suppose.

Over the summer, she’d had some minor work done under the hood. New spark plugs, a few nips and tucks. Unreliable fuel gauge repaired. It was a relief not having to calculate mpg with every fill-up to determine how much gas was … wait. Crap.

Apparently, in the case of my beloved Sal, no matter how much premium gas I pump, the tank will always remain half full or half empty, depending on your point of view. Meaning, the fuel gauge needle was stuck center stage, perfectly pointed like a middle finger, as if to say, “Go ahead, put some more money into this old car, silly girl.”

Clearly, I’d run out of gas. As in, nothing but fumes. I could hear my late father begin his speech about never letting your gas tank fall below half.

The only other time I’ve ever run out of gas was eight years ago in fall 2011 after working 36 hours straight in a particularly exhaustive set of marathon negotiations during the UAW auto talks. I was so tired my hair hurt. They had let us go home to shower, change clothes and return fresh as daisies for another round of fun.

On the way home, my Ford SUV suddenly lurched forward as if I’d run over a family of squirrels, which I had just done that summer. I managed to coast into a car dealership on Maple Road in Troy.

An older guy who drove the courtesy shuttle came out to see if I was all right. Then he asked if there was any chance I was out of gas.

“No, of course not,” I said. “It’s half full.”

Unfortunately, it wasn’t even half empty.

He kindly drove me to a gas station and then back to my car. Turned out he was a retired UAW member who had worked at Ford for 35 years. He made me promise I’d get some rest. Nice guy.

Back to the dentist’s office parking lot.

So, there I was with a dead pony. Shoot me.

Before I could say “Root canals rock,” three women in scrubs were outside pushing this 2,500-pound pile of metal into an open spot. Standing alongside the car, I clung to the dangling door with one hand and held onto the steering wheel with the other, praying I didn’t throw out my back.

Too late. Note to self: Don’t push a car when you’re pushing 60.

We left the car there, and I had my pearly whites cleaned. Of course, Nikki, my hygienist, couldn’t stop giggling. Thanks again to you, Kayleigh and Hayley for being perfectly pushy broads, and going above and beyond the call of dentistry.

An hour later, Rebecca picked me up. “I knew it was the gas,” she said with love.

Yes, you did, darling.

Looking down at the odometer, I saw that it read 27,774 miles. It’s obviously missing the first digit of an actual six-figure total mileage. Probably a one, maybe a two. Who cares? I zeroed in on the triple sevens.

“Gotta play those numbers,” I said to myself, rolling down the window to welcome in more of that crisp autumn air.

Half empty, my eye.