Fire Proof, Everything Proof

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. So was my car, and so was my entire garage. I could see the firetrucks turning into my street. If they didn't already know my address, they would have seen the flames, and more than that, they would have heard me, screaming my voice box hoarse, and probably being heard 5 blocks over.

I knew it had been a bad idea to put windows in my garage door. But the Pinterest boards were too enticing, and in the end, my needs for aesthetics won over. Aesthetics also burned down my garage, so, take note: adopt aestheticism with caution. That cozy fall cloak might look really cool on the internet but if gets caught in a door and you end up with a red ring around your neck and a purple-and-yellow bruise on your arm that makes you have to explain to your coworkers, "No, my husband does not abuse me," then its coolness has only gone so far.

So there I was, standing on my lawn, my voice all but gone, my garage a blackened crisp, and my car charred to a shade that would be perfect on a s'more. My husband was stepping out of his car and staring at the scene with his mouth agape. He pushed past the bustle of police and firefighters towards me.

"What...... happened......" The question was directed at me, but his eyes were still fixated on the melted garage door.

"One of the firefighters was just explaining it to me and apparently the new glass windows on the door essentially created a magnifying glass effect and lit up the pile of newspapers on the shelf that I was collecting for a project. Now my car looks like that but apparently we should also be grateful that it didn't blow up."

He blinked at me and I could see how torn he was between amusement and nausea. He hugged me instead and said, "I'm glad you're okay. But... I just wanna say. Your passion for art & crafts and house projects is wonderful and I love that, but when it's also mixed with your tendency to cut yourself, burn yourself, singe your eyebrows, set things on fire, or stain the bathtub green... maybe next time we should research a little more on what should avoid."

I whined a little in response, but then he pulled back from his hug and gave me a look that sent me into flashbacks of all the moments he mentioned.

The time I wanted to put up fall decorations and bought a cutting board so I could make my own. Then I sliced a part of my finger and fingernail off.

The time I wanted to stick decorative rocks on the bathroom sink. Then I dropped the hot glue gun onto my leg.

The time I wanted to make a DIY grill, bought triples of everything in case I messed up, printed out the instructions and made sure I followed everything to a T to avoid accidents. Then a smudge on my paper made me add more fuel than needed and the pillar of flame singed my eyebrows (and the sequins on my shirt).

The time I intentionally set a flowerpot on fire (for science). Then unintentionally also set the carpet near it on fire.

The time I tried to tie dye a wall hanging in the bathtub. Then stained it (and part of the dog) green.

To be fair, I do take precautions, especially when I know something involves fire or chemicals, but somehow things still just go wrong. I would argue that it's not because I'm accident prone, but because of how many projects I do. Of course if you think about the ratio of successful results versus the less than successful ones, there's bound to be some mishaps.

I voiced this out to my husband, but I could tell from the way his eyebrows raise that my argument was not as convincing once it left my brain.

"Alright I didn't want to bring this up, but for the sake of the rest of the house and the lives of the people around you, I gotta. There was also that time you set the curtains on fire when you tripped while holding a candle. And when you nearly cut the dog in half when you turned around with a knife in your hand and it somehow flew out. Or when you nearly took out my eye with a pen because you whipped your notebook out too fast and the pen wasn't properly fastened. Or that story your dad told me about how you --"

"O-kay!" I interrupted. "I'm accident prone. I concede."

He smiled. "You don't have to stop being you. Just be you with... a little extra precautionary research."

Two months later.

"If you don't stop peeking, I'll tape that blindfold on!"

"I'm not, I'm not!"

He held my arm as he led me down a couple steps into the newly rebuilt garage. We'd hired people to do it but he was closely involved in the process. I was not allowed in there, under any circumstances. All of the workers had this drilled into their heads by my husband.

He whipped off my blindfold and made a dramatic sweep of his hand. "Ta-da!"

I looked at him as my eyes took a second to adjust to the blinding garage lights. He had an impish grin on his face, like a boy charming his way out of being caught sneaking candy in class. I started to laugh at his expression but then I caught sight of the new garage.

I gasped, then I laughed and laughed and laughed. 

He'd turned it into a fool-proof experiment zone. There was one corner with what looked like a shark cage, complete with steel bars, but covered in fiberglass -- clearly a place to take shelter from explosions. One corner also had a fiberglass cage but this one, instead of steel bars, was padded floor to ceiling with the kind of material they pad mental asylum rooms with. Another corner had a wall of all kinds of protective gear. From those masks that you wear when you torch metals, to shin pads, to a football helmet. The last corner had what looked like a craft corner, but instead of a normal desk, the table was steel and looked like you wouldn't even be able to dent it with a hammer. The chair was similar albeit lighter-looking. On it laid industrial gloves, coveralls, and a chest plate. The walls and ceiling were made of some sort of metal that looks like it would be used for an apocalypse bunker and would survive a nuclear bomb. There were also fire-extinguishers in every vacant space along the walls.

I took it all in.

He then led me to the garage door, which had been covered from the outside. There was a big sticker on it that said, "Warning: Stay away. May spontaneously combust."

When my laughter finally died down to an occasional giggle, I turned to him. 

"Thank you for letting me be me, but safer."

So if you see a little 5"1 woman standing in a bunker-esque garage and something is on fire. Don't worry. It's taken care of.