Greetings from Poosey.
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Husband Herb is always so disappointed when the world is scheduled to come to an end and nothing happens. Y2K was a bust. The Hale-Bopp comet fizzled out. Everyone from the Jehovah’s Witnesses to Charles Wesley have tried and failed to predict the end of the world, leaving poor old Herb with the depressing notion that this thing is going to go on forever.
I keep telling him not to get his hopes up as he puts off paying bills, shoveling snow, and changing the oil in our Honda, all with the chance that the cosmos will collapse before he has to do anything strenuous.
Then just when I’d gotten the apocalyptic notions out of his befuddled brain, the Maya Civilization had the nerve to run out of calendar and Herb’s on another doomsday mission. You just can’t win. On Dec. 12, 2012, the Mayas flip over the last page of their 5,126-year calendar and that, my friends, is predicted by some to be the Big Kahuna… the Mother of all Big Bangs… the Final Square Dance for the universe. Dec. 11, cheese and crackers… Dec. 12, toast.
So this time I’ve taken a totally different tactic with Herbie, and I’ve gone along with the end game scenario. Instead of pooh-poohing his notions of The Apocalypse-That-Will-Save-Me-From-Fulfilling-My-Pledge-To-The-Church, I’ve agreed that yes, the world will indeed cease to exist on Dec. 12 of next year. But this time I’ve urged the old idiot to do something about it.
“Herb, the world’s going to end next year and Queen Elizabeth will celebrate her 60th anniversary on the throne. What say we drop in for a visit?”
“Too far.”
“Just drive as far as the airport and United Airlines will take care of the rest.”
“Let’s wait ‘til her 70th. She seems built for the long haul.”
“Herb, the world will be gone before Christmas.”
“Oh.”
“Okay, on Nov. 13 we’ll get to see a total solar eclipse.”
“Great! Now you’re talkin’ reasonable!”
“If we’re in Australia.”
“The Queen is closer.”
“July 27… the opening of the Summer Olympics. We’ve never been to one and according to you and the Maya calendar, this will be our last chance.”
“Is it in St. Louis?”
“London. That’s where they hold the London Olympics… in London.”
“Too far.”
“Herb, you keep saying that we really should go visit your cousin Maurice in Indianapolis. Let’s plan the trip right now.”
“We will. Some day. Besides, he may not be home.”
“We’ll call ahead, you nincompoop! We’ve got less than a year before planet Earth crumbles into clothes dryer lint.”
“I’ll call Maurice tonight. No need to be rushin’ into things.”
“Herb, don’t you have a bucket list… a bunch of things you’ve got to do before you die?”
“Sure. Get up. Get the mail. Drink coffee with the boys. Eat lunch, take a nap, go up for the afternoon coffee, eat supper and go to bed. That makes… what?… eight things I’ve got to accomplish.”
“That’s not a bucket, it’s a coffee cup! The Mayas gave you over 5,000 years to get something accomplished and you’re still sitting there on the couch! The world’s ending, Herbie boy! The collapse of the universe is heading our way and it’s got your name on it! Don’t just sit there! Be somebody! Do something! And stop dropping crumbs on my carpet!”
“You know, Freida, I’ve been giving this whole end-of-the-world thing a lot of thought. I think that maybe it’s just all a bunch of silliness… something to fill up space on TV shows and clutter newspaper columns.”
“Watch it!”
“What say we just pretend that the world will keep spinning? Let’s just forget about the predictions.”
“In that case get your feet off the coffee table. It’s got to last another 10 years.”
You ever ’round Poosey, stop by. We may not answer the door but you’ll enjoy the trip.