You Dropped a Bomb on Me, Baby!

Okay, so as I mentioned below, Mike dropped a bomb on me this weekend - the bomb being, when he retires in 4 years he wants to be...a fireman.

Now, my first reaction was laughter. "Riiiiight," I said. "That's a good one."

"I'm serious," he said.

"I bet you think you are."

"Are you saying you don't think I can do it?"

That was a loaded question. See, Mike and I are very stubborn, very competitive people. You NEVER tell us we can't do something. We'll do it just to spite you.

So I gave him the ol' "Whatever" and let it go. But then I discover he's actually RESEARCHing the possibility. And Mike doesn't research anything unless he's serious. So now I'm concerned. I'm tempted, oh so very tempted, to forbid it. Like an idiot, I tried this approach...

"Do you have any idea how much a firefighter makes?"

"Yeah. I looked it up," he said. "The starting salary is around $41,000 in Denver."

"And do you think you can support the lifestyle to which I've become accustomed on $41,000????"

"I think after twenty years of me supporting you, you can get a job."

"Oh, so now you're a comedian," I said.

"I'm serious, Molly. This is something I want to do."

"Why? I asked. "You've never mentioned this before so why now?"

Visions of some of my worst nightmares are passing through my head. All I'm thinking is, 'danger, danger, danger.' But I try to control my panic.

"I can't do a desk job, Molly. I'd hate it. And I'm going to miss the camaraderie of the military. I need...something."

"So join the Boy Scouts," I said. "Become an Elk. But firefighter is off the table."

Well, that was a mistake.

So then he calls my Dad --like that's going to have any influence on me, whatsoever. My Dad has a similar sensibility to Mike. He was an adrenaline junky in his youth. He volunteered for Vietnam, he tried out for the LAPD (but a military injury prevented him from passing the physical), he was a volunteer fireman. He understands Mike.

"See, Molly, you're Dad gets it," Mike said, with my father on speaker phone. "He totally supports me."

"Tell my father," I said loud enough for Dad to hear, "if you do this, the kids and I are moving in with him."

"Now, wait a minute..." Dad started.

"Oh yeah, Dad. I'm divorcing Mike and I'm moving into your basement. We'll get to see each other EVERY day. And you'll get to spend time with your grandsons EVERY day. 24/7. Day in, day out."

"We have a bad connection," Dad said. "I think your Mom's calling me. Coming, Gail! Love you, bye."

Click.

I looked at Mike. "Oh yeah, you've got his vote."

So this morning, the delusion continues and I call my mom to vent. "You're going about this all wrong," she said. "You know your husband is as stubborn as you are and he doesn't process the word 'no' like normal people. He HAS to come to this decision on his own."

"So what do I do?" I asked. "Just hope this is a passing phase?"

"Oh no, honey. You're going to actively support him in this decision."

"What?!"

"Do you remember when he was complaining about his bulky chemical warfare outfit?" Mom asked.

"Yeah..."

"And how much does that weigh?"

"Not too much. It's like an extra uniform and a face mask."

"Look up how much a firefighter's uniform weighs," she said.

So I did. And it's 90 lbs. More than half my husbands weight.

"Now," Mom said. "I want you to book a hotel room. Make it easy for Mike. Book it on the 3rd floor. Rent a uniform--the entire 90 lb uniform. Then you and your friend Rachelle crank the heat in that room as high as it will go and lay on the floor in that 3rd story room and wait for him to come and get you.

If he's serious about this, let him prove it. Tell him to put on the uniform, climb the stairs, hoist your dead weight off the floor and over his scrawny shoulders. Have him carry you down three flights of stairs then back upstairs to get Rachelle, hoist her over his shoulders, then back down three flights of stairs. And all of this on his bum ankle that needs surgery. And then, THEN you can talk seriously about him becoming a firefighter."

My mother is a genius.

I told Mike I was going to post something about this and he threatened me with, "Don't force my hand, Molly. If you tell me I can't do something, you know I'll do it."

So Mike, honey, since I know you're reading this, I will not say you can't be a fireman. But I will leave you with this--just because a mosquito wishes he were a rhinoceros, does not make him a rhinoceros. I love you for your brains, honey, not your brawn. Let me put this into terms you can understand; like an SAT question.

Mike is to firefighter as Molly is to...
a) Playboy Centerfold
b) Bikini Model
c) Vegas Showgirl
d) all of the above

Do you understand what I'm saying, hon?

I love you but I know with all the certainty that exists in the Universe that if I were ever unconscious on the floor of a high rise and you were sent in to save me, I would, indeed, perish.

When I think 'fireman,' I think this...

Not this...
Let's review that one more time. Fireman...

Probably not a fireman...
I'm just saying....

I love you, Mike. But you're a rocket scientist, honey. Embrace it.