I've grown accustomed to picking my way through the orange cones and around the concrete barriers in the construction zone that has surrounded my workplace for the past 3 years. I can live with the garlic smell that pipes directly into our ventilation system from the restaurant that has opened next door. I'm not afraid of the giant cranes anymore, even after one crashed through the window on the second floor here a few months back.

But the fire drills have got to stop.

Yesterday, for the third time in two weeks, the alarm sounded. "WHOOP, WHOOP, WHOOP! Leave the building immediately. Do not use the elevators. WHOOP, WHOOP, WHOOP!" Great advice, really, but I'm six floors up and my knee still hasn't recovered from when I biffed it on the Young Women hike up Ensign Peak last month, and the LAST thing I want to do is drop everything yet again and stagger down to the pavement, only to learn that construction dust has set off a sensor.

At least yesterday, which was the third time,  the fire department actually came. So maybe they'll get it sorted out now–I'll bet the stakes are higher. But my big worry is that we'll have an actual emergency, and I'll be so disgusted with the alarm that I'll ignore it and be swallowed up in flames. So I guess I'll keep obeying, even if I can't imagine there's a reason for it.

There's a metaphor in there somewhere, but my knee is bugging me, and I can't see it right now. Anyone else want to take it on?