No Rapture this past weekend, it turns out. The day before the Big Event a colleague and I were stuck on the Storrow Drive on-ramp behind a line of vans proclaiming to imminent End of the World, but we never caught up with them to see what they said on their sides or what the expressions on the drivers’ faces were. She and I talked about how we’d spend the last day on earth, and I considered whether I’d bother going on a longer training run if the earth were to be destroyed before my half-marathon anyway.
I’m not going to ask how people would spend their last day on earth, if people really knew the end was near. That question is not nearly stupid enough.
First of all, I’m wondering if anyone will be willing to admit they were even the slightest little eensy bit nervous that maybe some crackpot in Alameda just maybe might have been right. Just a little tiny bit worried, way at the back of your mind? C’mon! You can admit it. We’re all chums here.
Second, just in case you were a little tiny bit nervous, who was your Rapture litmus test? Who do you know that, if the chosen really were to fly up into heaven for their eternal reward, would be sure to make the cut? Did any of you make a casual phone call to a more pious friend or family member, just in case? For me, it would have been either my own mother, or the Better Half’s parents. All are Christians of sincere belief, and if they didn’t make the A list, then nobody did. (Sorry, Dad, but you read too many fantasy novels, and you weren’t even born in America.)