It's 6 p.m., and I'm on my way to the gym on a typical weeknight (I had tanned and done laundry earlier). I know there is nothing too peculiar about this, but there is one minor detail I should mention: My car had been on its reserve gasoline for a bit. By "a bit," I mean two days. Forgive me, but I hadn't time to stop for gas. Such is the life of a college student. And - I swear to you - the fuel gauge wasn't that low.
So picture me at a red light at the intersection of 34th Street and Archer Road during rush hour. As the light turned green, during the most inopportune time, at the busiest intersection in Gainesville, my car ran out of gas for the first time in my life.
There are certain intricacies associated with such a situation that are unapparent to those who haven't experienced it themselves: the nauseating unresponsiveness of your gas pedal; the suicide-inducing horns of angry commuters that drown out your stereo system; the sinking realization that you are "that guy" stopping the flow of traffic.
Fortunately for yours truly, one thing salvaged this pathetic situation: My friend was in the car. To the amusement of the unaffected drivers watching at the adjacent red lights, my friend hopped out of the car and began pushing while I did the only logical thing I could do: I opened my car door, stuck my left foot out and began pushing my car like a skateboard as I tried to steer through the increasingly hostile surrounding traffic.
Although the drivers were mostly unpleasant, there are some nice people in Gainesville. Two upstanding citizens stopped their cars and offered help. One kind soul seemed particularly worried. "Has your transmission blown? Has your car overheated? Do you need a ride somewhere?"
Nope, I answered, I just ran out of gas.
That day was particularly unfortunate. I need furniture, as my guests currently have two options: stand or sit on the floor. Only after driving to a couple of furniture stores did I learn that furniture stores close early.
The gym's weight room - the same gym I went through my near-death experience to get to - was also closed. The other gym I went to instead was inhabited by a stocky Asian man who dropped his weights so hard that I believed the building was due to collapse at any moment. My fellow gym-goers must have thought the same because the gym rapidly emptied, and judging by the course of my day, my friend and I soon followed.
Now that I've publicized it for the world to ridicule (or at least for the three of you lovely folks who choose to read my pitiful ramblings), I can glean some lifelong lessons hidden throughout my day. One: Don't procrastinate. Two: Don't procrastinate. Three: Don't cry over spilled milk -and really, most things are not much more significant than spilled milk - but learn from that spilled milk.
Although one might argue that it's incompatible with a science background, I can't help but feel that our days are teeming with instances of divine intervention that are bursting with meaning and hopelessly waiting to be discovered.
Or perhaps they are not. Perhaps my day was nothing more than a "facepalm"-inducing story.
But if it has the potential to better our lives, we should find that meaning - even if that means stretching and distorting interpretation so greatly that it would put an English professor to shame.
Abdul Zalikha is an microbiology junior at UF. His column appears on Thursdays.
