Fight or Flight

You know that civilian who will run into a burning building because he see grandma on the second floor trapped? Or the guy who will run into the street to save a dog when a car comes barreling down? Well, I am neither of those.

My brain and body aren't equipped for 'fight or flight.'

A decade ago I visited my brother up in Washington state and we went white water rafting. I distinctly remember the instructor telling us not to hold onto anyone if they're falling out of the raft. On the raft floor are flaps that you put your inside foot in so you won't fall completely out. So if you grab onto someone by their arm, he runs the risk of dislocating a joint. Ouch. I remember the instructor telling us this before we began rafting.

Halfway through we hit a pretty big wave. Lo and behold, my brother starts flying out. Of course his foot is secure in the raft. And of course I lunge and grab his arm. I'm holding onto him for dear life. And of course I remember the instructor telling everyone not to do exactly what I am doing. But duh-I'm not letting go.

I CLEARLY DON'T FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS.

Last night I cooked for the first time in my new crib. Roomie wasn't around, and I told him that I'd get a fire extinguisher, but I didn't, which means I had to be super careful. I did, however, buy a small bag of flour. It had the capacity to put out a match.
I like searing chicken first and then dumping it in the oven to finish cooking. Especially with white meat-it keeps it from drying out. Before I start cooking the chicken on the stove, I go to see if I know how to work the oven. It has all over three knobs, but trust me, these things are difficult. I don't know when to preheat, but I think now is as a good a time as ever, so I turn the temperature to 350. Immediately I smell gas. Not gasoline like at Shell (that smells good), but the natural gas smell. Uh oh...and then there's a little ticking sound going on. I'm not sure what it is, but it can't be good.

I think most people would have immediately turned off the oven and ran. Either or. Both would be fantastic. Me? What do I do? I stand five inches away from the oven and count each tick I hear, similar to counting sheep at night. After counting to 45, I'm bored, so I walk to the stove, poke my chicken a few times with the pasta scooper, and throw it on the stove.

I'm surprised I'm still alive.