The world didn’t end on Saturday, May 21, 2011. I guess I’ll shave my legs. Not because I’m wearing short shorts in celebration, but because it’s one of many things on a long to-do list I abandoned that Saturday morning.
I didn’t believe the doomsday predictions, but also didn’t want to waste my time. Just in case. If Harold Camping, self-taught prophet, was right about Judgment Day, things worse than hairy legs would keep me from being absorbed into heaven. And I might feel more macho with lush leg hair and better able to endure the five months of natural disasters that would lead to the end of the world.
I felt rebellious and free. I envisioned my post-apocalyptic, bad-ass self, wily and as hairy as the dogs that would accompany me. I’d be the alpha dog and we’d brave the blighted and lawless landscape. We’d rescue the trapped and protect the weak. My dogs would be loyal and devoted, especially when I confronted the devil and his hounds of hell.
“You’ll take on Satan and the hounds of hell?” my husband B asked, and actually set down the newspaper to look at me.
“Well, somebody’ll have to,” I said. “He’ll try to take over when everything’s in havoc. It’ll be the big face-off, good against evil, like Mr. Rourke against the devil on Fantasy Island.”
“But if you’re roving around with your pack of wild dogs…”
“Okay, before we go down a dog tangent,” B interrupted, “my question is: If you’re such a force of good, wouldn’t you be sucked up into heaven during the rapture?”
I was stunned.
“Are you saying I’m a rapture reject and not good enough to take on the devil?”
“Right now I’m saying I don’t believe we’re having this conversation.”
“It always happens that way,” I insisted. “Somebody of extraordinary ability gets left behind to save the world. It could be me.”
“And your dogs, of course.”
“Yes, and the dogs!” I said, starting to raise my voice and wondering why I bothered trying to have a conversation with B sometimes. “And anyone who believes they’ll be beamed up to heaven is a crazy, so my still being on earth wouldn’t mean I’m not good enough.”
“And it could also mean you’re crazy?” B asked, following my logic and smirking before he raised his newspaper again.
I really do wonder why I talk to him sometimes. I also wonder how long the hair would get if I didn’t shave my legs for five months. There has been a lot of weird weather since May 21 and maybe I should be prepared. Just in case.