PROMISES MADE. THEN WHAT, ARIZONA ANGEL?

Promises made to yourself are one thing; promises made to others are another.

Which one is more important? Does one carry more weight than the other?

It depends on how good your memory is.

Promises made to yourself can be secret. They should be secret, then if you screw up you have to live with it, but only you.

If you promise yourself to quit smoking and don’t tell anyone, who is going to get on you when you light up? Get caught with a pack of Camels? Oh well.

The secret promise to lose weight doesn’t come crashing down if you don’t tell anyone. Get caught with a ding dong in your hand? That’s normal.

But make it public with one announcement after another and what happens? You set up the perfect storm.

Understanding Promises Made

A public promise is an invitation for others to jump on your bandwagon.

Who doesn’t like a winner. Set yourself up to win, and keep winning? That makes everyone a winner.

Weight loss is the best promise because it shows if it’s a kept promise or not.

But it’s hard to make lifestyle changes and that’s why weight is such an issue.

If you decide to lose weight you have to do the other thing, too. What other thing? The one that accompanies eating right. Remember? Eat right and work out. It’s the exercise part.

Losing weight is half a promise. Stop there and you change from being big and soft to smaller and soft.

I haven’t checked today, but I’ve never seen anything related to achieving softness. Is being soft ever a compliment?

A promise to yourself has layers of meaning. Look better, feel better, live better. Why do we fail so often with promises made? Because it’s hard to stay on track. It’s more work than expected.

We don’t get results soon enough to build momentum to continue.

A Small Promise For Example

I made a promise not to geek out over beautiful women in Lamborghinis. It was a small promise I was sure I could keep.

How many times would it even come up?

I had a rental car low on gas one day so I pulled into a gas station, the kind with a supermarket attached. It was a hot Arizona day and all I wanted to do was get it done and hop back into the cool air inside the car.

But I had a problem, a fundamental problem. Maybe two.

One: How to open the gas flap. Two: How to work the pump.

My mechanical good sense says it’s easy. So where is the gas cap release button in the car? Not on the dashboard, under the dashboard, on the door, or on the side of the driver’s seat.

I can’t gas up without knowing that secret. And since I live in Oregon, I never pump gas. I was stumped. After a search through the owner’s manual I was still stumped.

A small car pulled up to the pumps beside mine. It was a smashed bug looking little car with tinted windows. Was I going to ask the driver how to gas up my car? The idea was not attractive on many levels.

Either the door of the car opened out, or lifted up. Either way, out popped an exotic beauty in either a swimsuit, or hot pants and a tube top. I didn’t break it down too far. I had my own problems.

This young woman got out of the car like a boss and worked the pumps like an Indy pit crew member. She went through the motions like a pro, like she knew everything and how to proceed.

Since it wasn’t some grizzled dude with a hardcore attitude toward dip sticks who can’t figure out a gas cap, I asked the lady for help.

A Big Surprise

This woman had every right to apply the ‘Don’t talk to me, gas station scum’ deal. She was as put together as anyone in show business. I half expected a, “Are you talking to me” response.

Instead, she was as sweet and nice as anyone you’d hope to meet. And driving a Lamborghini.

“Excuse me? I can’t find the gas cap release on my car. It’s a rental. Do you have any idea how it works?”

She said, “It’s probably like mine. A pressure release. Push the cover and it might pop open.”

She came over and did just that, like a miracle. And the gas cap wasn’t one with a lock, like no one ever siphons gas.

“This might sound lame, but I’m from Oregon and we don’t pump gas. How does this work?”

“Oh, I know. I was in Oregon and got yelled at for pumping my own gas. It was so embarrassing.”

Here I am pushing embarrassment down and she’s talking about being embarrassed. What a relief.

“What kind of car is that?”

“A Lamborghini.”

“Is it fun to drive.”

“More fun to drive than get in and out of.”

“Well, thanks for the help here. Can I ask a favor?”

“Sure.”

“When you leave, can you wind it up a little. I’d love to hear the sound of a Lamborghini throttled up.”

Promises Made

She pulled into traffic, found a clear spot and gave it the gas. It was a beautiful sound not heard from many cars. An Arizona Angel in an exotic car going through the gears? Damn.

It was a special moment, a dream sequence. All I was doing was trying to get gas, not be transported to another dimension.

What broke the mood was the guy gassing up on the other side of the pump. He’d seen the whole interaction and joined in.

“Did she say that was her car? That’s a quarter million dollar Lamborghini,” he said.

I knew what he was saying, but didn’t ask. His expression said everything a small minded shit would say. “It couldn’t be hers.”

“She’s a car expert in a world class ride. That’s her car. Did you hear her go through the gears? She’s a driver, not a passenger.”

He carried a skeptical look on his sour face. My car girl could have pulled up in an old truck, figured out my gas cap, and it would have been the same. She was golden.

While the echo of a full throated Italian engine in flight faded, the other guy nodded his head.

“Hey,” he said, “this is a rental car and I can’t find the gas cap release button.”

“Push the cap down and it springs open. Pressure release,” I said like an expert.