The “you are almost out of gas” light was staring me down. The rest of my family flirts with running out of gas, but I’m a chicken. Even though I was squeezed for time, I stopped at the Kum-n-Go to fill up. Because I hit all the green lights and there was no waiting at the pump, I had a couple of extra minutes. I parked the car and dashed inside to take advantage of the 59 cent, 32 ounce summer drink special.

I put my Dr. Pepper on the counter and dug for change. I thanked the clerk, said goodbye, and turned around and was staring into a face that didn’t move. I had a choice; walk around the guy or engage in a stare off. I walked.

First of all, he was 20 years younger than me. Didn’t his momma teach him a little respect? I bet he throws trash on the ground too. Obviously he didn’t understand the three feet of personal space rule.

I don’t know why that bothers me so. It’s as if the person crowding me is taking up my breathing air. Maybe it’s a grade school carry-over of fearing cooties. Why do people crowd your space? Did the Kum-n-Go guy think it would hurry me up like thinking tailgating is going to speed up a slow driver?

The worst is at the grocery store or Target in the check out line. I always get a cart so I can put it between me and the person behind me like a lion tamer with his stool. I’ve most likely read too many warnings about protecting your debit card pin number. I put my hand over the key pad so the nosey people behind me won’t run off to Bora Bora and drain my account. Actually St. Louis is a far as they would get.

As tempting as it is, I’ve not said what I want to say to space crowders. Then again, I’m pretty much a chicken.

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