Frank was in pain. A nasty burning sensation had been nagging him for years. It had started out small enough, a kind of tingling sensation not always noticeable. Lately though, it had gotten much worse, interfering with Frank's ability to move or even to concentrate. His work and leisure time were suffering.
"Where's this pain coming from," he wondered. "I'd give almost anything to get rid of it."
Frank's neighbor Aldo was the first to point out to Frank the source of his discomfort. "Did you know that your pants are on fire, old man?" ask Aldo one day. And sure enough, when he looked, Frank saw that his pants were indeed ablaze.
"When that happens to me," continued Aldo, "I always go down to the fire station and they hose me down to put out the fire. Maybe you oughtað— take a trip down there."
"Thanks Aldo," said Frank, "I'm gonna call for an appointment right now." He did, and the following day the crew at the fire department quickly had Frank's britches doused. The fire went out. Frank hadn't felt this cool in years, and he was happy to get rid of the pain.
"I feel so much better," Frank thought. "Thank goodness Aldo spotted the flames. I wonder why I didn't notice my trousers smoldering? You'd think I'd be able to notice something so obvious. Oh well, it's good to be rid of the pain. And at least now I know what to do if it ever happens again."
Frank's peace was short-lived. A couple of weeks elapsed before he again felt the burning sensation. This time, though, he had the presence of mind to look down to see his knickers blazing. Off to the fire station lickedy split, and Frank's pants were extinguished. He again breathed a sigh of relief as he cheerfully made a donation to the firemen's relief fund. On the way home, he shelled out even more of a donation for new pair of slacks.
And so it went for a long time. Frank began to see the cycle at work: his pain comes back and gets worse; he notices his new pants have caught fire and that's what's causing his pain; he makes trips to the fire station and clothing store; his checkbook is a bit lighter. At least when the cycle is complete, Frank is free of his pain.
"Thank goodness that problem's solved," he often thought. But a few weeks later, he smelled that familiar smoky smell and noticed that the fire had begun again. This time he grabbed the hose himself, and turned on the water. The flames died quietly, but another pair of jeans had bit the dust.
"What could have happened?" he wondered. "I thought I had this pants thing under control! Someone must have torched my Sansabelts when I wasn't looking! The nerve of some people!"
But as he thought back on it, he became dimly aware of having struck a match while he was wrapped up watching his alma mater make mince meat out of their rivals on the football field. Had he really torched his own pants? All of his awareness had drifted to the game, and his match striking habit then became free to kindle those new Haggars. "If only I'd paid attention," he thought.
Little by little, though, Frank began to expand his awareness. He found that he could pay attention to more than one thing at a time. In fact, with practice, he would sometimes catch himself with a lit match in his left hand. When he did, it was simply a matter of extinguishing the match to save himself the pain of a pants fire, not to mention the price of a new pair of knickers.
Frank kept practicing his awareness, and it got better. He was saving money on new pants, as well as reducing his considerable contributions to the fire department. Despite this, Frank still sometimes found the matchbook in his left hand, about ready to strike a match.
One day, though, his awareness practice brought Frank to a new level. Not only was he catching himself getting the matches out of his pocket, he was actually becoming aware of thinking about getting them out before he actually did so. "It's really easy to save your pants then," he thought, "you don't even have to blow out a match. You just so no to the any thought of matches. I'm really nipping this pants on fire thing in the bud!"
"Aha!" he thought, "It's not so much what I do as it is what I don't do. It's all a matter of awareness. As long as I don't strike the match, my pants are safe. If I can stop the fire off at it's source, I'm home free. It's so simple. Why didn't I think of that? Geeze, I'm so dense sometimes. Just dumb, I guess. Why that reminds me of the time that I ..."
As his awareness got caught up in this internal ranting and raving, Frank barely noticed his left hand as it began reaching into the pocket where he still kept the matches ....