Years ago, when I was a senior in college, I lived in a small condo with two roommates. They were all sophomores and I was a senior. That was the first issue. I probably should have never roomed with them to begin with. Read on.
One weekend my then-fiancé (I will call him Robert) was visiting me. I was fortunate enough to have my own bedroom. We were both sleeping in on a chilly Saturday morning when suddenly, we were awakened by the shrill bleeping of the fire alarm. And screaming. A LOT of screaming. Soon there would be more.
Panicked, I threw off the covers and went running into the main living area. To my shock, my roommate continued to scream while she battled a full-on grease fire in the kitchen. It seems the grease from her morning bacon had started the blaze. I saw flames and I heard her cries for help. She was a sweet little thing, but not the sharpest tool in the shed. I can’t exactly recall, but I think she was trying to put the flames out with the oven mitts.
Robert, who had had the great sense to put on his tighty-whities before running out of my bedroom, acted quickly. He grabbed a towel and started to beat the raging flames into submission. I can still see him standing there, close to naked, with said towel in his hands, fanning and flailing, his cute little butt in few for all to see. Later we would all laugh about this.
I was thrilled and, I must admit, just a bit turned on by how he took control, neutralizing the situation. But the lust in my head quickly turned to panic as I remembered just how dire the situation was.
Terrified, I bolted out the door, then proceeded to run around the condo parking lot, screaming for help at the top of my lungs. I was sure we would all perish if I didn't do something and quick. Those were days before cell phones, which was both a curse and a blessing. A curse because in a moment's time all three girls could have dialed 911 and had the police there before Robert picked up his first towel. A blessing because, well, when I ran outside, I had NO clothing on, not one single stitch.
That’s right. I was in my birthday suit in the middle of a parking lot. At some point, someone pointed out the obvious fact: I was naked. I believe it was Robert, in between his valiant attempts to douse the fire and keep us all calm. He had failed miserably on the latter, by the way, as I ran like a chicken with my head cut off in a parking lot of a large condo development in Fort Collins, Colorado. My saving grace was that it was early on a Saturday morning and most people simply weren't awake yet. Probably many had just gone to bed.
Once the obvious was pointed out to me, I looked at myself, and ran back in the house, grabbing the icy blue satin comforter from my bed. I wrapped it around my body quickly, then proceeded to run back out into the parking lot again, yelling and screaming the entire time. There was simply no way I was risking life and limb to stay in an inferno-filled condo. Eventually I went back inside, either from the sheer embarrassment of it all or because someone coaxed me back inside, assuring me all was well. I honestly cannot remember how I got back into the safety of my now fire-free home. But somehow, I managed.
At some point, the fire was out completely. The roommate who started it had to go to the hospital due to badly burned hands. Robert was the hero; I was the crazy person, and all was well in the end.
After we knew everything would be okay, we all had a laugh about the fateful fire. Robert was the hero and we girls were at his mercy. We all got more than one chuckle about his cutey patootie, admittingly more than my roommates wanted to see of my fiancé. It was not something he would quickly play down.
And me? I will never, ever forget the day that my dignity, as well as the bacon-filled pan, went up in smoke.