Normal with a Slight Chance of Rapture
Rapture Day 2011 has come and gone and I think we’re mostly all still here. But let me tell you– it was a close call.
As a literate Westerner with access to basic media, I was aware of the May 21 prediction. I was fairly convinced that if Jesus didn’t have the Apocalypse marked on his calendar, Harold Camping couldn’t really be expected to bear such heavy scheduling burdens. Still, I try not to be an asshole and laugh at misguided people. So I viewed Saturday as Normal with a Slight Chance of Rapture.
The day was nearly over with nary an abandoned car sighting, and I went about getting ready for bed as usual. I took my anti-anxiety medication so that I wouldn’t clench and grind my teeth in my sleep (I know, I’m adorable), and I noticed an unusual, bitter taste. I guess the capsule must’ve loosened and some of the medication had slipped out.* It was gross, but what are you going to do? I carried on with my routine and got in the shower.
Almost right away, I started to feel a little nauseated. Then dizzy. My heart felt like it was running away. I called out the bathroom to my husband, “I’m crazy hungry! Do we have any granola bars?! The crunchy kind! Not the chocolate kind! CAN YOU GET ME ONE?!”
Heeding my loud and specific dietary request, Bryan met me back in the bedroom with growing concern. I recounted my worsening symptoms, scarfed the granola bar, agreed to his offered water, and began considering the very real possibility that I was under cardiac arrest.
“Remember the email your mom sent about how women’s heart attacks have different symptoms? Do you think I’m having a heart attack?! What’s wrong with me?! SOMETHING’S WRONG!”
“I AM SO HUNGRY!”
With the non-chocolate crunchy granola bar now starting to soak up medication released far too quickly into my bloodstream, my dizziness began to abate. So I headed for the kitchen.
Pissed that there were no more granola bars of my precise desire, I resigned myself to Ritz Toasted Chips: Dairyland Cheddar and a Sam’s-Club-sized bag of Craisins. I sat in bed shoving the chips by fours into my mouth and tossing back uncounted handfuls of the Craisins.**
Having decided that 911 was at least momentarily an unnecessary call to make, Bryan observed my attack of the munchies with cautious amusement: “I haven’t seen you eat like this since you were pregnant.”
And then shit got weird.
Our son came in to our room having a night terror. This happens to him sometimes and it’s always freaky, but that night, almost immediately, our oldest daughter also came in to our room in some kind of delirious state. There was no way it was because she’d heard him get up– her room is on the other floor, on the opposite end of the house from his.
Lost in his night terror, our son stretched out his hands and asked with plaintive desperation for me to give him food for the next day, while our daughter absently lolled her head back on Bryan’s chest. And I wondered aloud through a mouthful of chips whether we might, in fact, be being raptured.
I like to think that normally I’m a rather attentive mother in these types of situations, but I could see that the children were coming out of their freakishly timed episodes and that their dad had things under control, at least insofar as one can have things under control in a potentially end-times scenario. So I headed back to the kitchen for another bag of Ritz Toasted Chips, this time of the Sweet Home Sour Cream & Onion variety (thank Publix for BOGO munchies).
Bryan got the kids back to bed while I worked intently on my fourth snack of the hour. When we were sitting together again, a fly went past, and I took note: “It’s a bug! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
And when my wise husband spoke, I knew with relief that I had escaped the Apocalypse, at least for the night: “I think you’re high.”
But let me tell you– I feel for those failed-prediction folks. Getting up for church the next morning was a bitch.
Moral Disclaimers That Make Me Feel Better About Myself:
*Never in my life have I used recreational drugs (Hi, Mom!). This is a story of my accidentally getting high. Just say, “No,” kids.
**I am not pro-bed-snacking. It leaves crumbs.