What better way to embrace the start of a new day than streaking naked through the air, madly waving a broom to the beat of an ear splitting industrial squeal?
It certainly wakes you up quicker than a shower, particularly when you're in the shower when such a delightful soundtrack begins.
For most folks this wouldn't pose a problem. You wrap a towel around your naked frame. Proceed to the hallway. Stand on a chair or if you're one of those lucky long limbed folks, just take advantage of that freakish wingspan. Press and hold the reset button on the fire alarm. Problem solved. Your rugs will be sodden and you might be a little pissed off at the false call, but the process was painless, a minor nuisance. Besides, the fire alarm was just doing its job, trying to keep you safe.
Today I flirted with death when my fire alarm erupted. That wily bitch likes to shriek me an aria every other month and seeing as I had gone two consecutive months in relative bliss, I was long overdue our tango of will and perseverance.
Imagine you're in the shower, a similar situation to what we've discussed above. You're sudsing your hair into a pompadour and taking advantage of bathroom acoustics with your best Janis Joplin impression, all with your eyes closed because it's simply too early to start making demands of all five senses. You hit a high note and are drowned out by a wail that puts your alto range to shame.
The disorientation of snapping eyes open to cruel light and trying to stave off ruptured ear drums leaves you with only three good senses left. Taste is useless. Aside from the metallic tang of blood left when your tongue waged a surprise attack on your teeth, a defense mechanism resulting from a near brush with slippery porcelain death when the alarm first struck, the tongue will do no good in disarming your very vocal foe. To depend upon Smell is equally ludicrous. The nose has a one track mind, preoccupied with how delicious pomegranate mango body wash is and how that lovely awapuhi conditioner will attract both bees and the bon ton. Smell has very little common sense and if left to its own devices would likely end up living off Top Ramen and reeking of daisies.
This leaves Touch, the go get 'em action all-star of the sensory line up. Touch is competent and practical, most definitely up for the job. Unfortunately, a partnership with sight is necessary to expedite this process.
Ignore everything but the need to eliminate the shrill cry of the fire alarm. Fumble awkwardly out of the bathroom, speed taking precedent over grace. Dash to the kitchen and grab a broom to use as an instant arm extension. Leap on to a chair, broom raised in offense to slay the devilish party. Your enemy is mounted twelve feet in the air. You are five and a half feet on a good day. The broom measures up to your shoulder. Begin leaping madly, just barely whacking the plastic demon with each pass.
Breasts flap heedless of the air conditioning vent assaulting their delicate sensibilities. Shampoo blinds one eye, contributing a squint to the former grimace of determination. Dust sprinkles down upon you, creating a delicious confection of sweat, tears and dust mites. Don't think of how easily it would be to slip off the vinyl folding chair and land in an unnatural tangle of limbs, offing yourself in a fashion worthy of any Darwin Award. Let loose a cry to rival that bitch and unleash the fury. With a final roar the beastly harpy is knocked askew, guts exposed, the siren killed.
Finally, blissful silence.
Aside from the ringing in your ears.