Nic Narrates

So I’ve been feeling totally awesome about my decision to Embrace the Single. First, there was Taco Night. Followed by Left-Over Taco Night (we’re very economical around these parts). And then there was the fancy date I took myself on last Sunday (ice skating in Millennium Park, then Ghirardelli blueberry cheesecake ice cream while people-watching at Water Tower in 60 degree weather!!). I’ve definitely turned over a new leaf.

That is, until the pilot on my stove went out and I completely fell to pieces.

True story: gas stoves scare the bejeezus out of me. And the whole lighting the pilot? Oh, hell no. Whenever it goes out, I call “Mario” the maintenance guy who takes approximately one to three days to “fix” it. Which translates into a “harmless” natural gas smell in my apartment for said approximate one to three days.

With that in mind, I sat on my kitchen floor in serious debate with myself. I looked up at the kitchen sink where a definite pile up was (is still) taking place; the dishes stacked, sorted even, waiting to be washed. Then, over to the living room, where nearly every coat I own is tossed on the chair for easy access given the wide swing in temps we’ve seen the last few weeks. And finally, on the floor lies my suitcase (still not unpacked), reminding me there are even more piles of laundry in the bedroom.

If I call Mario, I’ll have to actually clean first, I thought. Hmph. I decided to risk a ball of flames rather than a ball of shame should Mario see my half-assed cleaning job. Maybe I can just try, just see, if I can light it on my own? Maybe?

I found the grill lighter (for the grill I don’t have) and crawled back toward my looming nemesis. I paused as I remembered the scene in Fight Club when the Edward Norton character’s apartment explodes because the gas was left running and the refrigerator clicks on and creates a spark. That was just the refrigerator! What about my OPEN FLAME?!

I envision a painful, fiery death.

Should I leave my glasses on, I wondered, you know, to minimize the scorching of eyeballs should a flame shoot toward them? I even considered whether to put on my giant down coat for added coverage. But what if it, like, MELTS onto my skin? Wouldn’t that just make skin grafts that much harder to complete?

With actual tears, yes, TEARS, forming in my eyes and after a few “I don’t want to die”s slipped out, I held my breath in honest-to-goodness fear and clicked the lighter and…POOF.

My eyes popped open in surprise. It was over and done with.That’s it? I’ve been calling maintenance for that? What a wuss I’ve been!

And now? So brave.

Filed under: awesomeness, domesticity is overrated, Just Another Day in Crazy, singletons, you're a card by Nic