The Key To Embarrassment.

It has been reported in some quarters that southern women don’t sweat, they glisten.

To that little piece of nonsense I say a most emphatic, “Ha.”

I am here to unequivocally state that although many of my Southern Sisters may very well glisten (and verily, even glow) when they are under stress, I can personally attest to the fact that this southern gal is quite capable of producing impressively copious quantities of genuine sweat when given the proper circumstance.

And it just so happens that I ran across such a circumstance one southern, summer day.

Sarah and I were driving home from her summer camp in Steve’s newish car. It wasn’t until we had stopped for gas that it occurred to me that I had driven his car so little, I didn’t even know how to open the gas tank. I messed around with the cover a little, trying to find something to push or pull that would accomplish the needed task, but with no success.

So I unlocked the car door, reached inside for my phone, and leaned against the side of the car while I obtained Official Gas Tank Opening Instructions from my husband.

As I was talking, I happened to glance at the woman in line behind me. She was looking at her watch more times than was absolutely necessary and sending all manner of frowny-faced, impatient vibes in my direction.

I’m sure that from her perspective, I was acting just a little strange. First, I couldn’t even open my own gas tank and then for no readily apparent reason, I stopped making any attempt to do so and started chatting on my phone instead. She was not pleased with my obvious inadequacies as a human being.

After Steve told me about the magic button that had to be pushed from inside of the car, I quickly filled my tank and hurried to get everything put away so that I could stop impeding the important progress of Miss Impatient.

Everything was going along just swimmingly until I got back behind the wheel and realized that I had no keys. They had disappeared. Completely.

Now you may be wondering how anyone could possibly pull into a gas station with their keys in plain sight, only to discover five minutes later that the keys are gone. I was wondering that very thing.

After a cursory glance around the inside of the car and the pump area, I decided I was going to have to make a little speech to the snippity lady-in-waiting. I was going to have to tell her that I couldn’t move my car out of her way because I could not–and here comes the embarrassing part–seem to locate my keys.

A spasm of incredulity crossed her face after I had relayed my unwelcome news. She sighed hugely, rolled her eyes, and then backed out to get in another line.

Fine. She was taken care of. I, on the other hand, had a minor crisis in front of me. I had a car. I had a daughter. I had a trip to finish. But I had no keys.

I continued my not-yet-frantic search, thinking that I must have dropped them behind the seat or tossed them into the abyss I call a purse.

Nothing.

Then I glanced up and saw that a second car had pulled in behind me. I sighed, walked toward the car and made the motion of rolling down the window so that I could tell the teenage driver about my situation. However, it suddenly occurred to me that she was so young that she’d probably only ever used a switch to put down a window and would therefore have no idea what my motion even meant.

I suddenly got so befuddled by the fact that I didn’t know the proper methodology for asking a young person to open their window that I just stood dumbly outside her car in a puddle of misery (and sweat) until she finally took pity on me and opened her window a crack. I repeated my little speech about having lost my keys and watched as she, too, moved to another line.

Returning to my car, I asked Sarah (who was rather wide-eyed at the debacle unfolding in front of her), if she would please get out and look for the keys underneath the car. I didn’t really want to do that myself because when I look under a car, I tend to stick my unsmall rear straight up into the air which is not an inspiring sight for anyone. (I am not even kidding.)

Sarah checked under the car and then started doing some general rummaging around, looking everywhere she could think of.

No keys.

The temperature was in the high 90’s (with humidity to match), and I was quickly discovering that my deodorant was not doing what it was touted to do. I could feel the sweat forming under my arms and the heat rising in my cheeks and to make the whole situation all the more fabulous, I saw that another car had pulled up behind me–except this car was driven by a man.

Oh great. This will make his whole day. He is about to be told by a ditzy woman that she has just filled her car with gas and in the process, has managed to lose her keys.

I trudged miserably back to his car–armpits continuing to produce a suspicious substance that wasn’t a glisten nor a glow–and stood silently beside his window, once more scrolling through my mental litany.

Do I make the “roll down your window” gesture? Is he old enough to know what means? Do I smile? Do I wave? Do I really want to make this speech all over again?

After a few moments of awkward silence, he finally opened his window to see what this strange, sweating woman might possibly have to impart to him. I repeated my pitiful speech and saw the look in his eyes that immediately labeled me as A Scatterbrained Woman.

As I watched him move to another line, I began to suspect that my sanity was slipping. I mean, I know I have reached the middle years of my life and my memory is not what it used to be, but surely I would have remembered if some criminal type had walked up to me and stolen the keys right out of my hand! I mean, really?

I even walked over to the garbage can and looked in there to see whether some wild moment of perimenopausal brain spasming had caused me to absentmindedly toss the keys in with the Burger King wrappers.

No keys.

As I got back in the car and attempted to gather my wits, I noticed in my rear view mirror that yet another vehicle had pulled in behind me. Driven by another man.

Sigh.

Heaving my sticky, stinky self out of the car, I trudged forlornly in his direction. Thankfully I was spared the whole Rolling Down The Window Conundrum because his window was, happily, already open. I forced myself to don a nonchalant smile as I repeated my speech.

“I pulled in here to get gas. When I got back in the car, I couldn’t find my keys. I’m still looking for them. You’ll have to move to another line.”

It sounded so ridiculous to say it, even to my own ears. I could see in his eyes the same opinion as the first guy. What an absolutely wacky woman! How could someone lose their keys in the time it takes to pump gas?

I sent one last wavery smile in his direction and stepped away from his van so that he could back up.This particular fella, however, was not to be deterred. He turned off the engine and settled back to wait. And watch.

I thought, “Oh great. Not only can I not find my keys, I now have an audience who is going to watch me not be able to find them.”

For the third (or was it the hundredth?) time, I went through my routine.

Bent over (flaunting the aforementioned rear), and looked under the car. Looked all around the gas pumps. Looked in the garbage can. Looked in my pockets. Looked in my purse. Looked behind the seat.

And sweated.

Because believe me, I was way beyond the point of glowing. I was way, waaay beyond the point of glistening. This was a circumstance that called for sweat.

Pure. Simple. Smelly. Sweat.

I got up my courage to steal a glance at the guy in the van behind me and discovered that he was leaning forward with his chin propped in his hands, viewing the whole sorry scenario like he was watching his favorite TV show.

And I was it. I was his Reality TV show. I was the sole source of this guy’s entertainment for the foreseeable future.

Oh happy day.

Just as I was pondering whether to ask someone to help me push the car out of the way, a man and woman on a motorcycle pulled in to the other side of the pumps. As the man started pumping his gas, the woman gradually became aware of my circling, mumbling, and sweating. I caught her puzzled look in my direction said feebly, “I lost my keys.”

And that was all it took. Immediately, I knew I had a comrade on my side. There was no “This is a scatterbrained woman”  look in her eyes; she was sympathetic and better yet, she was willing to help me look.

While Mr. Van Man continued to happily observe the entertainment unfolding before him, I watched my new friend begin a search of her own.  And do you know the first place she checked for the missing keys? In the garbage can.

I wanted to hug her. She completely understood the fact that the female brain sometimes compels us to do things that are not completely logical. I had found a kindred spirit!

Not finding anything in the garbage, she circled around the far side of the pumps and approached my car from the front. Then she stopped. And she smiled. And she said, “There they are.”

And there they were, indeed.

The keys were hanging in the outside lock of my car door. When I had unlocked the car to get my cell phone, I hadn’t closed the door again and so I never even saw them. (In my feeble defense, the car I usually drive has a remote clicker to unlock the door and I wasn’t used to putting a key in an actual door lock.)

I smiled. I laughed. I almost cried.

And then I said, “I’m so thankful it was a woman who discovered the keys in the door and not a man.”

She understood that sentiment completely. She gave me a conspiratorial wink and a glimmer of a smile and without another word, got back on the motorcycle with her fella and roared away.

I pulled the keys out of the door, held them up to the guy behind me and yelled, “I found them!” He straightened in his seat, beamed at me, and then burst into wild applause, like his team had just made the winning touch down.

I was so very happy to be of service.

Who knows? If my new best friend on the motorcycle hadn’t shown up, I might still be at that gas station. I might still be mumbling and circling and searching and sweating and providing rare entertainment for all the guys in the vicinity whose opinion that all women are scatterbrained was being confirmed right before their very eyes.

I would like to close this out by saying to all of my genteel Southern Sisters that I am sorry to have to let you down. I am sorry that I had to spoil the Southern Sister Illusion by admitting that a woman from the south can indeed be transformed into an unglowing, non-glistening, sweat producing machine.

But here’s the thing.

Some situations call for glistening.  Others call for glowing.

And there are a few rare situations that call for sweating–Southern Sister or not.

And if you ever lose your keys in a busy gas station on a hot, humid southern day?

You will have found that situation.

Trust me on that.