This is it. My final year. On October 11, 2015 the world will end and I will die.
According to the Gregorian calendar- or the Western calendar as its known in certain circles- on the date of October 11, 2015 a cataclysmic event will transpire that will propel electric shockwaves through the stratosphere and paralyze my heart until it stops cold in my chest (though another plausible outcome I have considered is that my body will combust into a brilliant display of flames and flesh). And that will be it. Poof. The end.
What is so extraordinary about October 11, 2015, you ask? What scientific or ethereal deductions have lead me to land on this oh so hallowed day? Ah yes, I shall divulge.
You see, on October 11, 2014, a mere 365 days prior to the aforementioned date of said apocalypse, I turned twenty-nine. TWENTY-NINE. Can you even imagine??? Therefore on October 11, in the year of our Lord two thousand and fifteen, I will turn 30 and I will simply die (a third scenario I have played out is that a pack of wolves will materialize out of the air and simply rip me to shreds).
Oh come on, don’t look at me like I’m crazy. What other outcome is there? Think about it. This is the last year I can refer to myself as being in my “late twenties,” I’m single, it’s the last year I can go to Coachella and not look desperate, I’m going to have to get rid of all my bodycon dresses, I’m single, I can no longer justify a 2:00pm Saturday hangover, I HAVE a 2:00pm Saturday hangover, and I’m single. And also I’m single. Sigh.
Wait a second…
I think we (me) are (is) having a psychological breakthrough! Could all my insecurities and fear inspiring theories of what the future might hold on October 11, 2015 stem from the one singular facet of my life over which I have no control and is leaving me to summate that the only other conceivable outcome of turning 30 in my current situation is impending doom? Gasp!
I guess I just thought I’d have it all figured out by now, you know? A house, a baby, and a loving husband who dotes on me endlessly. That’s the plan, right? I’m 29 years old dammit! I mean, yes, I have a job that I love that I’ve worked my ever expanding and contracting ass to get. Yes, I have an ever expanding and contracting ass that I’m feeling confident will lean towards the latter if I keep working with my personal trainer. Oh I have a personal trainer. And he’s great for giving my friends’ health tips. And I have the best friends ever. Like the friends who offer to stay in with you on a Friday night when you’ve had the lamest week ever. They’re almost as good as my family and my grandmother who I’m obsessed with and always makes me laugh until I cry.
Wait a second (part two)…
Could it be that by placing so much importance and all encompassing focus on what I deem to be a measure of life’s success I have completely ignored the major accomplishments and life’s blessings that surround me at the mere age of 29? I mean I can get a massage any night of the week that I want. I have a dope 401k. And last week I got 80 likes on a selfie. 80 likes!
Now that I think about it, I remember when that whole Mayan apocalypse was unfolding. December 21, 2012. I was terrified to the very core of my being. For months leading up to it I was consumed, nay obsessed, with what I thought would be the end of the world. On the night of the actual event I lay in my bed, eyes wide open, heart palpitating in an unholy rhythm, and braced myself physically and mentally for the end of the world. At the stroke of midnight my door blew open (I kid you not) and I screamed at the top of my lungs. But then it turned 12:01. Then 12:02. And the world kept on going.
Alright, maybe, just maybe, on October 11, 2015 it might keep on going too. And maybe, but only maybe, I’ll still keep on going too.
By Lauren Celinski