End Of The World

Well, dang.  I’m still here.  Guess I’ll have to pay those Christmas bills after all.

It’s the official day of the end of the world and so far there’s no big bang or big flush or big pffftttt or whatever.  I’m a little unclear about whether the world was supposed to end last night at the stroke of midnight or tonight at the stroke of midnight, though, so maybe there’s still time.

And anyway, the Mayans weren’t specific about what time zone they were using.  Maybe the end of the world will creep around the globe following the time zones.  Just in case, I’m going to keep an eye on my blogging buddy AquaTom over in the UK.  He’s having an End of the World blog party today, so if he goes dark, I’ll know what’s coming.

You, too, can receive this special advance warning… or just pop over and to say hi.  Tom asked his readers to spread the word, so please consider this your invitation to the End of the World Party:

Come join the End Of The World party over at AquaTom Mansion

Come join the End Of The World party over at AquaTom Mansion

Tom suggested a few writing challenges to bring to the party, namely “The fun side to a bad hair day”, “Dashing through the snow”, and/or “The passing of time”, so here goes:

Bad Hair Day…

For me, a “bad hair day” is virtually indistinguishable from a “good hair day”.  I wash it and let it dry, and it always looks more or less the same.  I’m not sure whether that’s “good” or “bad”, but I’m trying to imagine what a truly “bad hair day” would be like.

I think Medusa must’ve had some seriously bad hair days.  I’ve never tried to wash a snake, but I suspect they wouldn’t be cooperative.  They probably wouldn’t take kindly to curlers, either.  And imagine the disasters on date night.  Even if she could find a guy who was smart enough not to look her in the face and turn to stone, even a simple kiss would be an exercise in frustration:  “No, no!  Bad, bad hair!  Stop biting the nice man!  Wait, come back, honey; they didn’t mean it!”

No wonder she was cranky.

* * *

Dashing Through The Snow…

When I was a teenager, I strapped on my cross-country skis one cold, clear night and dashed out across the pristine whiteness surrounding our farm.  Skiing was easy across the smooth, flat fields.  The moon was full and so brilliant that my shadow undulated along beside me.  The squeak of snow under my skis was the only sound.  It was breathtaking.

It was also stupid.

It was minus 30 degrees Celsius, and even though I’d put on my warm down jacket, I was only wearing blue jeans on my legs.  You may have heard the expression “freezing one’s ass”.  I did.  Along with my thighs.

To this day, if the temperature dips below minus 10, I have to wear ski pants because of the damaged circulation in those areas.  Not quite the delightful experience most people envision when singing “dashing through the snow”.  But…

With The Passing Of Time…

I’ve forgiven my teenage stupidity, and I still enjoy the lovely memory of that bright, silent night.  And hey, at the end of the world, that’s what counts, right?

Happy Apocalypse!