Slow dancing in a burning room

I leave at six in the morning tomorrow, although I have to be at the airport way earlier than that.
I haven't packed... and it's... what o'clock right now?
I've spent the last three days shopping like a maniac for this trip... but not nearly as psycho as my mom.
It appears the little lady has lost her mind. She actually forced me to purchase not one, or two, but three purses.
All that shit, on top of yesterday's crazy (but AMAZING!!) gift.
Mom... are you ok? Do you have to give me some world-shattering news? Oh my God... you and Dad are getting a divorce, aren't you?! Please don't! I know I'm 25, but that's my worst nightmare! You guys are supposed to stay together forever!

She claims to be fine... but we'll see what's up... we have to see how these next nine days work out.
Who knows, I may come back the owner of a new penthouse in downtown Chicago.
Ok, I'll  NEVER agree to that. I dislike Chicago far too much to waste money like that.
I'd rather... do what this Spanx advertisement encourages me to do in nothing but... the Spanx:

Cook a meal, win a race, put out a fire... diffuse a bomb, perhaps ?

I'm particularly fond of the "Put Out a Fire" idea.
As a scientist, I feel obligated to plead to the general public of idiot, gullible females: Please don't... just.. stick to going to your cubicle, Bat Mitzvah, Quinceañera, or club in said undergarment... preferably with more clothes covering.
And stay away from fire.

Of course... the biologist in me thinks Darwin, baby.
Go ahead, young ladies... enter a burning building in nothing but your Spanx. I don't mind having more guys left for me to choose from.