Our brains get lazy and let us down all the time. Mostly, this happens when we are doing something innocuous. We let our brains take over and go into autopilot.
This is called chunking. It occurs when something becomes so routine that our brain lumps it into one task.
For example, going to work. Do you ever get to work and think, how did I get here?
Our brains work to be as efficient as possible. You aren’t actively thinking about opening your car door, backing out of the garage, shutting the garage door, etc.
99% of the time, this results in arriving at work with no issue. However, if there is a slight change in your everyday routine, it can lead to a mistake. For example, you get in your car and remember it is garbage day. You get out of your car, roll the garbage can to the street, get back in the car, and drive away utterly oblivious to the fact that you left your garage door open (not that this happened to me today, this is a fictional situation that I came up with).
Something like this has happened to all of us at some point. During some rituals, our brains skip a beat and pick things back up at step 10 rather than step 9. It isn’t delightful, but it is usually harmless.
So, why are you reading this? Well, sometimes chunking can lead to an embarrassing moment, like this one.
My wife, son, and I were heading North to Duluth, MN, to see Thomas the Train. My wife was in dire need of a new cell phone, so we decided to stop at the AT&T store before hitting the road (yeah, my Saturdays have been lit lately).
We pulled up to the store at 9:40 AM, and, of course, it does not open until 10.
“What do you want to do?” I ask my wife.
“Let’s just do it some other time.”
“Well, I need to go get some gas before we leave.”
We pull out of the parking lot and drive to the gas station down the street.
I get out, swipe my card, and pump the gas as ads run on the tiny screen.
I open my wife’s door and ask, “Do you want me to get you anything from inside?”
She said that she didn’t.
My car needed washer fluid; it had been alerting me to this for about two weeks. Also, we didn’t have sunscreen, so I figured I could grab some of that as well.
I ran inside, found the high-priced sunscreen and washer fluid, paid, walked out of the store, popped the hood, put washer fluid in my car, and threw the empty jug away.
I glanced at my windshield and decided to use the squeegee to clean it (something I never do, but the squeegee seemed fun).
After I got in the car, I was satisfied that I was prepared to hit the open road, I asked my wife, “Do you want to head to Duluth or go back to the AT&T store?” After all my windshield cleaning, it was a few minutes before 10.
“Let’s go to the store and get it taken care of.”
“Sounds good.”
I put on my seat belt, turned on the car, put it in drive, took my foot off the brake, and slowly started to pull away from the pump.
There is a thump, and then I hear a grinding metallic noise.
“What is that? What did I hit?” I ask my wife as panic grips my chest.
“You need to back up.”
That’s when it hit me. I knew what I did, or didn’t do to be more precise.
I put the car in park, unbuckled my seatbelt, got out of the car, looked around to see who was looking at me, walked around the back, and saw the gas pump nozzle still inserted into my gas tank. The hose lay limp on the ground beside my car, completely detached from the pump.
I worried that the heat radiating from my face might spark a fire.
Nervously, I scanned the area, looking for someone who had witnessed the most idiotic thing I had ever done (arguably).
Do I go inside and tell somebody? I really don’t want to. I can reattach it.
I looked at the end of the hose that was once attached to the pump and then at the pump where the hose was attached.
See, somebody knew that idiots like me existed. They created these hoses to detach without ripping the gas pump or destroying my car.
I grabbed the hose, reached the end up to the pump, reattached it (as best I could), took the nozzle out of my car, placed it back on the pump, put on my gas cap, got in the car, put on my seat belt, looked at my wife, and said…
“Good enough,” and got the hell out of there.
I spent most of the drive to Duluth wondering how long it would take for this scene to appear on YouTube.
The point is, this wasn’t my fault.
The blame resides solely on my brain.
Cheers.
Reblogged this on Still Another Writer's Blog.
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