Numbskull Behavior
A series of unfortunate and completely avoidable events
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Christina
First, I got a flat tire.
Technically, I made a flat tire, because I was the one driving.
I was driving up a road I’ve driven possibly 50 times, the only blaring difference being that on this particular day I hadn’t had any coffee yet. Well, I had it — an iced quad oatmilk latte actually — but it was in my hand when I flattened aforementioned tire. I was complaining about how I can’t do anything until I’ve had coffee, waving my very full cup of coffee around … when I steered my tire right into a curb.
Don’t blame the coffee, though, blame me.
Blame my recent bout of numbskull behavior.
Displays of numbskull behavior include (but are not limited to) the following:
On my way home yesterday, I stopped at the gas station, and automatically got out of the car to fill the tank. If you recall, regular people aren’t supposed to pump their own gas in Portland, so it made sense that the obviously grumpy attendant scoffed at me. “You wanna do it yourself, go ahead.”
Happy to prove myself, I told the machine to give me $45 worth of gas and skipped over to the window cleaning station, where I squeegeed my windshield as if to say, “Look how gd competent I am.”
I saw the machine was done, put the pump back in its holster, and drove the rest of the way home feeling accomplished for some reason.
As I pulled up next to my building, my gas light dinged on. Zero gallons of gas. Zilch. Nadda. Empty.
I’d been DUPED. ROBBED. WHERE WAS ALL THE GAS? $45 DOWN THE DRAIN!! THINK OF HOW MANY BURRITOS THAT COULD’VE BEEN. HOW MANY CANS OF MISTER’S CAT FOOD.
Huffing and puffing, I gathered the strength to accept that I’d have to face that grumpy gas attendant. He’d probably think I was an idiot, WHICH I AM NOT.
Wanting to be armed with receipts, I pulled up my bank account so I could point to the missing $45. There was the charge, all right. A charge from the gas station for …
45¢
I drove to the gas station, reveled in pumping my own gas, and put 45¢ worth in the tank. What is that these days, like .001 of a gallon?
Numbskull behavior.
When I ventured back out, I went to a different gas station.
One of my favorite true crime podcasts put out a 15 episode series going deep into a bonkers case. I listened to the first four episodes, marveling at how well they can tell a story and get me fired up. My list of suspects was already eight people long.
I sat down to listen to episode five.
About halfway through it, I got nervous that the dementia I’m positive I’ll eventually have came for me early. None of the names sounded familiar. They were talking about the same case, but all of the information went right over my head.
In fact, they seemed to be wrapping up this story prematurely. The DNA samples were tested. The kids were grown up.
The episode finished and I opened my phone to go to the next one, hoping the story would get back on track.
That’s when I saw I hadn’t been listening to episode five.
I’d listened to episode 15.
Anna and I went to a writers’ conference in Seattle a few weekends ago and had a super lovely time. We read poetry and went to panels and ate sandwiches on baguettes and discussed religion and womanhood and got the most perfect parking spot.
I drove us home — another route I’ve taken about a thousand times now — on the 5 South, a freeway dear to my heart because it connects me to so many people I love all over the west coast.
This drive takes about 3 hours with no traffic and we were looking a nice, easy drive. The first hour flew by, actually. So pleasant.
Until I saw a sign. About a toll road.
I never see signs about toll roads. Had they installed a toll road in the last 48 hours? That would be crazy! Good job, everyone!
You’re probably seeing the pattern by now. The pattern of numbskull-ness. In fact, if you’d been in the car with me, I bet you would’ve noticed long before I did: I wasn’t on the 5 at all. I’d been steering us down a totally different highway for over an hour. We were no closer to Portland than when we started. My autopilot went defunct and our drive home took twice as long.
The lucky thing about numbskull behavior is that it’s pretty harmless. It’s really just … inconvenient. But it’s avoidable, which is probably the most frustrating part in my opinion. It’s human error and none of us are safe from it.
As West said later, “It’s the feeling of, ugggh, I could’ve just not done that.”
Numb. Skull. Behavior.
It’s forgetting to turn off the oven or blinking before your perfect eyeliner dries. Over-drafting your checking account buying gum, missing an appointment because you thought it was Tuesday, cutting your bangs too short, dropping your toast butter-side down, doing a high kick during your first ever high school theatre rehearsal and ripping a long hole through the crotch of your jeans … not that I have experience in any of these things.
There’s a better term for it, I’m sure. I think “numbskull” comes somewhere from the depths of my childhood, where my dad told me stories about other kids who didn’t wear helmets on their bikes or put their legs up on the dashboard in the car. Don’t be a numbskull.
Be a smart skull, ya dummy!
I have more thoughts on this topic that I’ll get into later this week. And a story that, unlike apparently most of my other numbskull examples here, doesn’t involve my car. It does involve a joint, a pomeranian, and a garage door. So … prepare yourself.
If you have any numbskull stories to share, please share in the comments. Let’s all have a laugh at our own expense.