It happened again. You went to a party, and, even though everyone there looked super normal, it turned out that they’d all been preparing for the apocalypse. In urgent tones, they warned you that it’s coming soon, and you should be ready. You arrive home half-drunk and tell your husband that you’re finally going to take it all seriously. It’s time you prep for the end, which may be nigh. He wanders off muttering something about you being cool in the twenty-tens—but he’ll thank you later.
First things first, you go online and order yourself a LifeStraw. Out of all the things the party people shouted at you to buy, this was the one that stuck. The other thing you remember is a “crank radio,” but that can’t be right. Isn’t that just another name for a sousaphone? You can’t imagine how a sousaphone would help you in the case of a grid failure, so you just order the LifeStraw. You only get one, despite the fact that you have a husband. You figure that, if worst comes to worst, you’ll share the straw. When it arrives in the mail, your husband asks how it works, and you shout, “WE BEND DOWN AT THE SHORE AND WE DRINK FROM THE RIVER.” He walks away. That’s O.K., more Hudson River water for you.
The very rational-seeming people at the party told you that you’ll need to have a plan, should anything happen. Like, you may need to bike to Canada at some point. You haven’t been on a bicycle in a decade, so the next day you get on one, and only then do you remember why you haven’t done that in ten years. It’s quite unpleasant on the genitals. You think, could my genitals handle being smushed all the way to Canada? Likely not. On to Plan B.
Plan B, they told you, is to stay put and be ready to physically fight for dwindling resources. You pick up a gallon of water at the grocery store but immediately set it down because it’s too heavy. Later that week, you attend a martial-arts class, and fifteen minutes in you’re getting choked by a child. Gasping for breath, you wonder if perhaps you shouldn’t rely on your own brute strength. Maybe it’s time to invest in a weapon?
You head home, dejected. That child really choked you good. You Google “How to buy a weapon,” and, after two clicks, you’ve obliterated your algorithm. What used to be some makeup tutorials and the occasional “looking for a man in finance” stuff is now entirely violence. You watch a twelve-minute video on swords and then an eight-minute video in which a man scythes his lawn. You think about his terrified neighbors. This isn’t how you want to spend your life. You veto weapons. On to Plan C.
Plan C is to do what you did to get this far in life: glom on to friends who are more prepared than you. Someone in your extended social circle must own a bunker. You send out some casual texts: “Girly, any plans for the end? ;p”
No one responds, but you realize that you forgot to say what you, personally, could offer in a bunker situation. But what can you offer? You can’t cook, you drive slow, and your body smells like salad dressing if you skip even one day’s shower.
What to do . . . what to do? The end could come any day now. All you have is that damn straw. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to buy the sousaphone—have that on standby? You’re beginning to spiral out of control. You start to wonder if perhaps you’re only equipped for a life of comfort. Maybe other people can hack it, but you don’t really see that for yourself. Maybe it’s time for a snack.
Suddenly you have an epiphany. You text your friends again: “In case of an apocalypse, you can eat me 🙂”
You breathe a sigh of relief. Not only do you have a plan but it’s also community-minded. Maybe it could even be considered mutual aid? You dip your pinky into a three-year-old bottle of teriyaki sauce, then bring it to your lips. Not bad at all. You take another deep breath. So this is what it feels like to be prepared. You could even go on to help other frightened, weak people. You can’t wait for your next party invite. They’re gonna be thrilled to hear about the existence of Plan D: just be meat. ♦
