Nancy Drew and the case of the phantom boob light.
Our current apartment is the greatest. Sure, it’s creaky and thin-walled and we never have hot water, but there are some serious plusses as well. The shower has a seat in it! This stunning bath detail gets me one step closer to my goal of living life like a 90 year-old woman. Also, the light fixtures here are top notch- brassy, mirrored, Miami Vice inspired objets d’art. When I look at them, I can actually hear New Wave music pouring out the ceiling.
In the hall, we have one particularly excellent light fixture. Ah, yes, it is the classic boob light. You know the kind.
Sorry for the R-rated photo. Let me make that a bit more modest for you:
One great thing about our boob light is that it can be controlled by two light switches- one at each end of the hall. This feature is quite useful when I break into a dance-down-the-hallway moment ala Hugh Grant in Love Actually.
Generally, my routine goes like this:
However, my most recent dance sequence was not as slick as usual- the boob light didn’t turn on when I flipped the switch. I flipped it another time and got nothin’. Same story at the other switch. Using my stellar reasoning skills, I surmised that the light bulb had burned out.
Now, a responsible adult would have changed the light bulb. Instead, I shrugged and walked away, assuming my husband would find the problem later and address it appropriately. I’m on the ball like that.
Late that very night, I was
snoring sleeping soundly when Eric shook my arm to wake me.
The hall light just came on!
Huh? Wha? I am asleep.
Someone is in here and they just turned on the light! What should we do?
We are going to die! We are going to be murdered. TONIGHT. I don’t even like this t-shirt, I don’t want them to find my lifeless body in it! (At this point, I believe I had wet the bed in fear.)
I’m going to go check it out- I’m bringing my hunting knife in case I need to stab the intruder.
And with that, my brave husband journeyed into the hallway, knife in hand. I sat in the bed, wide-eyed and making a mental plan of how to help him shank the robber/gunman/rapist who was surely on the loose in our apartment. Twenty seconds later, Eric returned to the bedroom with a glass of milk.
I think the light just turned itself on. Maybe there’s a loose wire in there or something.
So it was just the boob light?
It was just the boob light.
Lauren McKinney’s life lesson #3: Stay calm, it’s probably just the boob light.