Warrior

I was groggily making coffee this morning when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked up at the ceiling and saw something reddish-brown waving in the air vent. I immediately thought it must be a roach. What else could have possibly reached the vent in the ceiling? And it looked big. Nasty big. Trying my best to suppress the burgeoning panic, I go in search of the broom. I bang the broom handle into the metal grate and watch the nasty creature move slowly to the other side of the vent.

Instantly, my mind pictures masses of giant roaches crawling through the air ducts. I briefly entertain the idea of cranking up the heat, wondering if it would be hot enough to cook them. I imagine masses of vile insects crawling from every vent in the house to escape their sadistic fate. I shudder at the thought. Maybe it’s just the one. I can pretend I never saw it. But what if it’s pregnant with tiny roach babies? Ok, maybe if I bang it really hard it will fall out and I can kill it. I prepare for battle.

I lay my tools out on the kitchen island. Sargent swat (the supersonic fly swatter made of hard rubber) sits next to the paper towels and Clorox kitchen and counter spray for its proper disposal. This has to be quick. If it crawls under something, the mission will be a horrendous failure. My brain will constantly flash on pictures of it crawling on me wherever I go. Not knowing where it is worse than looking at it. I sing the first verse of Eye of the Tiger to psych myself up. I grasp the broom in my sweaty, shaking hands, take a deep breath and give the vent several quick, hard whacks. The offending creature falls to the floor.

My body betrays me and I react like a scared little girl. I let out a squeal that I should be ashamed of, but I’m not, and franticly brush my body and generally flail in place. After my quick outburst I calm myself and look for the roach which is probably long gone by now. I gather the courage to direct my eyes toward the floor.

And there it sits. Half a cinnamon stick I stuck in the air vent last year for spicy goodness. I take a deep breath and return my heartbeat to a normal rhythm. I carefully place all my roach hunting tools back where they belong.

I pick up the cinnamon stick and sniff it. I should put a new one in the vent. This one doesn't smell anymore.