My Dodge Dakota was almost on empty yesterday, so I filled up. Came to $46. To which I say:

*&^%$#@!!#$$%^&$@#@%^&*!!!!

Or something like that.

My parents’ generation always notices gas prices, and they talk about gas prices like I might talk about, say, the price of coffee at Starbucks. “Did you notice that the price of gas went up a penny?” I’ve never been one to notice. Those signs out in front of gas stations might as well not exist for me. I have gas stations I go to regularly (BP, Shell, or Meiers), and whatever the price is, that’s what I pay. And I always pay at the pump with a credit card.

But Pam, my wife, is beginning to talk about the price of gas. She’s noticing those signs. And she’s younger than me, barely on the edge of being a baby boomer. Of course, she’s a CPA, so you might expect her to notice money-related information.

On the other hand, when I’m filling up with gas, I pay strict attention to the number showing when the pump clicks off. I don’t mean the outrageousness of the final price. I mean the really important figure: whether or not it ends on a number ending in zero. You see, the pump didn’t click off at $46 even. No, it was $45.76. I then nudged it on up to $46. If I miscalculated and it ended in $46.01, I would need to nurse it on up to $46.10, or $46.20. This is very important to me. It may strike you as a bit banal, without the b, but I guess “this is the way God made me.”

Now, Pam can end on any number. When the pump clicks off, she removes the pump handle and she’s done. Uneven numbers don’t faze her. She can deal with it. But I guess I lack her maturity in that area. I must, absolutely must, try to at least get to the next round dollar amount. If not an even dollar amount, then I’ll settle for any other number ending in zero. But never $45.76. Never ever.

I am proud of the fact that I’m able to obsess over the things in life that truly matter.