I was filling my car up with gas last week (and having a minor heart attack because, my God, $55 to fill up the beater Saab I was driving that day? It’s like adding insult to injury) when the woman approached.

She looked to be in her late 40s. Windblown hair, flower-print blouse, minimal makeup. Looked like a harried mom who maybe needed help finding an obscure street in my tiny New England town. Looked like she was sure I’d say “No” if she asked me anything. So I made up my mind to say “Yes.”

“Excuse me, but can I ask you a question?”

“Yes!” I said brightly, one hand on the nozzle. My brothers like to joke that I can’t find my way out of a wet, upside-down, brown-paper bag, but if she needed directions, I would do my best.

“Have you ever thought about earning a little extra income from home?”

My first thought: Who hasn’t?

My second thought: Crrraaaaaap. She’s doing a sales pitch. And with the gas pump ticking away and my car keys in my pocket, I was a captive audience. It’s like a taking a call from a telemarketer times infinity, because you can’t really hang up on one when she’s standing in front of you.

I thought about my options. I could tell her I was late for a meeting, which was true, but the meeting was 40 miles away and there I was, pumping gas. I could tell her I don’t want to talk, but that seems rude when I have nothing else to do but watch Big Oil tap into my checking account via my credit card. I could tell her thanks, but no thanks, I didn’t need the extra income, but I was driving a 12-year-old dark green Saab that has definitely seen better days, and who was I kidding?

I told her I already juggle two jobs in addition to my family, that I didn’t have time for a third, and I thanked her for asking.

Wouldn’t you walk away after that? If I were her, I would have walked away after that.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she kept saying “Good for you!” in this strange, fake-pleasant, semi-encouraging voice that made me want to check to see if her emotion chip had been properly installed. So I went into reporter mode. I started answering her questions by asking some of my own.

Her: “So, you don’t even have, say, 12 hours a week to earn a little more income?”

Me: “No, not really, unless I can earn it without selling anything, buying anything, or stuffing anything. What company do you represent again?”

Her: “Um… but wouldn’t you like to bring in an income of your own?”

Me: “Actually, we live on my income. Are you offering to give me some of yours?”

Her: “Ha ha! I can see you’ve got a great sense of humor. We love that in our team members!”

Me: “Ha ha! I’m sure you do. Does your use of the phrase “team member” mean that you’re pitching an MLM plan of some sort?”

She looked at her notebook, as if the answer would be there, and I realized that it probably was. And then it hit me: It’s not that she’s wondering if I need a little extra income. It’s that roping me in was the only way she was going to earn any herself.

I felt bad for her, having to cold-call strangers in person in public places.

At this point, the guy from inside the gas station’s convenience store had come out and was standing behind her. She ignored him and kept talking. The only way I was going to get out of this conversation was by driving out of the parking lot.

“I’m really sorry, but I have to go,” I interrupted, craning my neck to see the numbers on the gas pump, being really obvious about it even though there wasn’t anything blocking my view. “Do you have any materials I can look over when I have time?”

She didn’t, so I can’t even tell you what company she worked for. Just that the whole encounter left me feeling sorry for her, and a bit more at peace with my own workload.