Instant cringes no longer paralyze me the minute I hear a low-flying plane overhead or the wail of a passing fire engine. But those air raid warning sirens still get to me. You know the ones -- they bleat from time to time on Friday afternoons, bringing visions of 1950s bomb shelters or covering your neck in that tornado fetal position. I heard those sirens the other day and instinctively began to pray.

"Dear God, if they are going to bomb us, let me know now -- so I can stop vacuuming."

Yes, I had been in the middle of my weekly flurry-fest to clean my apartment in two hours or less, running myself ragged. It occurred to me, if I were to die in a few minutes, I would not be doing what I wanted to be doing. I also would not have gotten done all I hope and/or intend to do in this lifetime. This happens all too often.

So what I would do? What changes I would make if I knew the hand of doom were going to crush my skull in, say, half an hour?

I came up with an array of activities: draw a picture, mount a photo, paint my kitchen bright green. Gorge on cheesecake, drain my bank account, run naked through the street. But I didn’t think death went well with a stomach ache and who cares about material things when you can’t even take them with you (unless, of course, you are planning to be buried like King Tut). As for the last option, it was still cold outside and I didn’t think my final moments on earth should be spent with frozen extremeties or being handcuffed and carted to the 68th precinct for disturbing the peace.

It all came down to people. Like many I know, I don’t reach out enough, don’t tell others how much I appreciate being around them or the daily gifts they give me. Take my friend Lynn, for instance. This woman is a creative phenomenon. When I moved, she made a care-package ceramic envelope complete with business cards, mailing labels and customized, personalized stationery all with my brand-new address. Do I tell her I love her? No. I called her twice. Once when she was sick and another time because I was paranoid that the cops in the hall were not real cops but lurking mass murderers. I needed someone to talk some sense into me. Lynn was the one.

Maybe we just feel "cheesy" or "weird" saying that "love" word -- especially with all its negative connotations connected to things like institutionalized marriage (or marriages that should be institutionalized, at least) and really bad poetry.

Love is a heavy-duty word. But "like" is too general (think "I like Ike") and "appreciate" is weak. How about: "You really mean a lot to me. Thanks."

That sounds good. Besides Lynn, there are several other people in this world who I rarely (if ever) take time to thank or even give the time day. "It’s all about priorities" another friend of mine who I rarely call tells me. "You have to make the time to make that phone call."

The age-old question: How important is it? Most of us spend undue hours fretting over trivial, meaningless things when we could spend our time in much more worthwhile ways.

I am not trying to get out of vacuuming here, for it makes me feel better to live in a clean and orderly environment, but I don’t have to go to extremes. And I don’t have to mop my kitchen floor at five in the morning. Perhaps I should shelve the Pinesol one Friday and concentrate on friendships instead.

We could all start by trying to call at least one person a week, just to say hello, how are you. If we want extra-credit, we could actually listen to their response, not just blather aimlessly at them as some of us are wont to do. If it’s one of those special people, why not let them know that they help make your life worth living; we don’t have to wait for a bomb to hit (although fear is such a great motivator).