*I’m working on shutting down my old blog, Biting Life, right now…and I found this old funny post I wrote about how I freak out under pressure. Thought you might want to read it!*
Alright, it’s story time. I hope you all appreciate my keen ability to make fun of myself (Sidenote – Am I the only one who says keen anymore?)
(Brent picks up a cup with utensils in it next to me without realizing that there’s a pointy knife sticking up out of it).
Brent: Ooh! Sorry, I came a little close to you there.
Me: What… huh?
Brent: I almost stabbed you with this knife!
Me: Oh… I wasn’t even looking. Or paying attention.
Brent: That’s good. You probably would’ve jumped forward and stabbed yourself in the face with it out of panic. Because, you know, you’re such a cool cucumber under pressure.
As much as I want to kill him, he’s totally right so I couldn’t help but laugh. He probably realized a long time ago that I’m not the best as responding appropriately under pressure. That’s why I always sucked at those stupid improv and “get to know you” games. Yeah, I’d rather hide in the corner under a desk, thanks.
But if he hadn’t realized this about me yet, it became quite clear the other day when there was a small fire incident on our bed.
Brent and I were sitting there, trying to figure out this whole “how to plug as many things into outlets without popping a breaker in our small apartment” thing. He handed me a thick orange rusty-looking extension cord and told me to plug it into the wall. I’m not the best with electronic equipment, but I swear this wasn’t my fault…
As soon as I pushed it into the outlet, a bunch of sparks flew out the other end onto our bed (a.k.a. our futon mattress we put on the floor). Case in point, Brent jumps up looking all prepared for the dangerous house-fire we’re obviously about to have, while I’m basically curled up in the fetal position screaming “FIRE! WHAT DO I DO?!”
Later on, he told me that in the .1 seconds in which flames were exploding onto our sheets, he’d already come up with a plan…
- If it was a small fire, he’d run and grab a pot filled with water to throw on it.
- If it was a big fire, he’d run into the hallway and grab the fire extinguisher.
He’d also figured out that (a) if the fire was bad, he should yell at me to climb out the bedroom window, and (b) if I couldn’t figure out how to open the screen, he was going to tell me to push it out with my feet and jump.
… Don’t you just love when your significant other prepares for your complete incompetence? He’s obviously a keeper.
P.S. Just so we’re clear, there wasn’t actually a fire. It sparked quite impressively, but the bed did not enflame. Thank God. Because I would’ve been screwed.