I never believed the world was ending in when the calendar rolled from 1999 to 2000. I joked about it at the time, saying my family could survive on the goldfish crackers scattered in my car and the murky water standing in the plastic sandbox in our back yard. I made no other preparations.
I had no fear. The world would go on . . . how could it not? I had little kids in my house and the world does not stop when there are snacks to prepare and bubbles in the bathwater and Nintendo video games to play.
I was thirty-five years old.
Almost twenty years later, I look around, shocked that everyone is carrying on as if the world isn’t ending. I am fifty-three years old. Time is fleeting. (That’s putting it mildly.) Even though summer just ended a minute ago, this Friday I will put up Christmas decorations.
Then it will be summer again. My daughter will turn 17-years old. My husband will turn 60. I’ll be 85 before you know it and why is everything just whizzing by so fast?
I mean, okay. Deep breath.
Right now, my daughter is 16. None of my adult kids have actually moved out of the house. I can still run up and down the stairs. I’m gainfully employed. My husband is beloved by all (and actually only 57). I am reading Harry Potter at long last. Our Thanksgiving turkey is in the fridge and I will have both Thursday and Friday off.
I saw the sunset tonight. Let’s just all calm down.
(But honestly. Doesn’t it bother anyone but me that our lives are finite? That one day we’ll be gone with nothing to show for our lives but a closet full of clothes that our next-of-kin will box up and donate to a thrift store?)
The sky is falling.
Or maybe that was just an acorn hitting my head.