The end of the world. If you think it’s not happening, let me assure you that it happens more than you know. This may sound contradictory, you’re thinking “happening more than I know? Can’t it only happen ONCE? As in, the END?” Nope. Trust me, babe, what you are about to read will resonate deeply with you, let you know that you are not alone in the race to survive. Perhaps even pull you out of the desperate funk that the long winter months of diminished light, grey landscaping, and equally grey skies have wrought. All that damnable grey….making it almost impossible to see where the drab land ends, as it blends unremarkably into the equally drab sky. I’m a fan of the color grey, and even brown. I love black and white photos, pictures filtered in sepia… but ONLY those colors? Ugh. I am a VERY sunny dispositioned, and up beat kind of gal, but by mid February I am bleary eyed, pale faced (which is unnatural for a Lebanese girl), cranky despite my daily exercise. I am dangerously likely to murder someone for a slice of sunshine as it briefly appears and cuts through a window, warming and illuminating a single spot on the floor, if that person is standing there blocking my access, refusing to yield their position in their equally desperate state. Yes. you read that correctly. MURDER. My favorite expression and grouping has become “a MURDER of crows”, the scientific term for a number of that particular bird.
Isn’t it wonderful? MURDER… and I grin wickedly and darkly whenever I see a MURDER of crows, imagining joining their feathery and homicidal flock should the days refuse to move me more rapidly closer to spring and summer. I sit in long meetings, my irritability rising like gorge in my throat, a knee bobbing restlessly under the table, a keenly sharpened pencil grasped in my shakey hand, trying desperately not to give in to the urge to leap across the table and stab an aimless over-talker who has used a full third of the allotted time to prattle on sociably, into SILENCE. I know you feel the same way, don’t lie. We’ve all screamed things in our heads at moments like that. We’ve committed heinous acts of vengeance in our mind. We’ve all asked ourselves if the jail time is worth it, and by March…it IS. How does anyone manage to survive? I like playing in snow as much as the next idiot, but a couple of weeks of it is all I require. Just enough to see me through Christmas. But endless months of blah and muck of a barren wilderness? BRING ME SPRING OR BRING ME DEATH! No. Not death, not really. Maybe bacon and chocolate and liquor. And in vast quantities. I tend to have a flare for the dramatic and exaggerate at times. A shocking self-revelation that none of you suspected about me. You get my point. I’m so DONE with this season and I have exhausted my tool kit of distractions. My shoes are damp, my toes are pruny and cold, and my heart is shrinking like my husbands favorite cotton t-shirt in the hot cycle that I accidentally ran it through. The favorite one he bought at the concert he went to with our oldest sons over Christmas but he doesn’t know about yet because I know how to hide things in a cluttered house. Unfortunately he is quite literate and once this article is out, so is my dirty little secret. Another world ending scenario right there folks. Of course, if you’ve read my article on how to successfully present bad news to a man, you will have an idea as to what two “tools” I’ll whip out to break the bad news.
Clearly a guide to surviving this desperate situation, and other end of the world disasters is critical. In fact, it is a necessity. It SHOULD be an essential information packet included in everyone’s “Welcome to being alive!” introductory package! It’s not, for the record. In fact I am fairly certain that no package even exists, not even a brochure to help you navigate life, and of course, the end of the world which happens approximately 17.3 times per person during the first 18 years of your life. Pimples explode over night in your youth, cleaving you from the cool lunch table, banishing you to the wobbly chaired table of shame where other kids sit, sweatshirts tied around their waists to hide unfortunately placed stains, or bedazzled pockets aunt Ginny just KNEW would look good on you. Whatever ended the world on that particular day, oaths were sworn over slightly warm containers of cafeteria milk to never return, NEVER, because the world as you knew it had ended.
Yet, the next day there you were, pockmarked and cranky, but alive. Everyone else seemed to survive the trial and tribulation and the humiliation too. 17.3 times per person by the age of 18. The numbers are there folks, the science is sound. Trust me. That number escalates quickly over the decades as people head off into the “real world”, begin searching for a purpose, a partner, and *gasp* raising children, aging bodies, and figuring out what you want to be when you grow up AGAIN. Yeah, grow up again. No one bothered to tell you that you were going to have to answer that question several more times as the years pass. Last but not least, trying to figure out a way to finance….well…EVERYTHING. Now you should not need to purchase a partner, in fact I will go so far as to say do NOT purchase a partner. It’s just wrong and yucky and not cool on so many other blog levels that I just do not have time to go into it here but I promise we will circle back to that topic (Partners: a smart purchase or a gimmick?) in another piece and at a later date. Hand to heart. It will happen. For now, we brace ourselves, we stare into the darkness of the night and mutely raise our fists with middle fingers extended because somewhere out there is the jackass who set us all here with no guidebook, no GPS, no essentials kit. Just set our naked asses down on the planet and hoped for the best. Well, I won’t be beaten so easily. I’ll make it to Spring and I’ll have the last laugh. I’ve made it to 45 Springs so far, I feel confident in my track record that I’ll make it to 46, so this howling wind and rain and cold out there tonight, enjoy your little reign of wretchedness, your time is numbered and I have a garden I want to start planting, and an ocean I need to stick my feet in. I’m coming for you. I will survive!