Last night I was doing my usual supper prep tango, the back and forth from the stove to the sink to the counter to the stove, stepping over children and crayons and homework, just me making a giant tray of loaded nachos, when I smelled something burning.
I shuffled back over to the stove to see if some kind of food had fallen too close to the flame, but that wasn't it. What the heck was creating that smokey smell?
Oh! It was me! My clothes were on fire! What was my first clue, you ask? Only the flames dancing in my face, licking their way up my scarf.
I shrieked, told Atticus to GET BACK GET AWAY I'M ON FIRE HERE, slopped some of the boiling water from the pot I was holding onto the floor, finally got myself together, man, heaved the pot in the sink, yanked the scarf from my neck, and threw it, flaming, to the floor.
I did a quick check to make sure nothing else was en fuego- sweater, hair, flesh- but I was mercifully fire- and burn-free. It was then pretty quick work to put out the pretty little fire eating away at my scarf on the kitchen floor, suppressing the errant cinders hopping onto the rug in front of our sink.
An hour later I couldn't figure out why I still smelled smoke everywhere I went in the house, 'til I took a sniff and a close look at the collar of my sweater; the fabric was melted and scorched on either side of my face.
Let this be a message to all you hippies out there: SYNTHETIC FIBERS SAVE MAYBE NOT LIVES BUT DEFINITELY FACES. And the bonus is that my unflinchingly shapeless and unflattering but oh, so warm sweater now gives me that cozy campfire smell whenever I don it, Mr. Rogers-style, moments after walking in the door. I should have set myself on fire months ago.