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Jun 30th
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This Is The End

greg mayancalendarThis is traditionally such a busy and chaotic time of year for so many of us. Regardless of whether or not you align yourself with any particular spiritual or religious path and its seasonal celebrations, it seems that the general pace picks up all around us, and we’re often caught up despite our best efforts. And wouldn’t you know it, right in the thick of it comes another poker in the fire. I don’t know if you heard or not, but this weekend is kind of a big deal, and it pretty much blows everything else out of the celebratory water.

According to the Mayans (the formerly living Mayans—there are not any actual Mayans left), Friday is the end of the world! This Friday—Dec. 21.

Even though it’s obviously a major event, it may have been lost in the shuffle along with buying more Scotch Tape for wrappig—and buying more Scotch. Just yesterday I was talking about my holiday party schedule, and I caught myself saying, “Friday … Friday…what else is happening? Oh shoot, I’ll have to miss the party. It’s the end of the world and I should stay home with my kids.”

Aside from the apocalypse being a handy excuse for postponing all the Christmas shopping, baking, cleaning, wrapping and most non-mandatory merriment, it is also a prime opportunity to get a few things off my chest and out in the open. If I am going to meet my maker (or someone else’s maker) in the next few days, I would like to start with a clean slate.

First of all, so that we are all clear on the concept, let’s lay the ground rules:  After Friday, Dec. 21, 2012, I will never, ever see, speak or write to, read updates from, get poked by, receive texts or voicemails or, for that matter, field forwarded chain emails or recycle junk mail from, or wake up next to, any of you ever again. On the up side, you will never ever get any of that from me either. Ever. It’s a certainty. There is absolutely no doubt in any thinking person’s mind. Right? OK. Since we are in agreement on the whole “end times” thing, I feel it’s my duty (and my barely containable joy) to put all my true feelings out there on the sacrificial table, for the universe to see. So here goes. (I highly recommend you do this with all of your friends, loved ones, co-workers and elected officials. It’s really a no-lose situation. What could go wrong?)

To all the men I’ve loved before: I only really loved three of you.

To my family: I should have treated you more like friends.

To my friends: I should have treated you more like family.

To my dog: Sorry about the cheap food. I know it makes you gassy.

To all the cars on the freeway in the middle of the day: I guess I’ll never know where you’re all going.

To all dairy products: Please know how much I have enjoyed interacting with you over the years. Our relationship has had its ups and downs, and I will forever (well, that’s really only another day or so) regret my stab at living lactose-free. That was clearly not living. I made up for it during my gorgonzola-sour cream sauce years. Why, just this morning I woke up with both heavy whipping cream and buttermilk in my refrigerator, on the shelf next to both flavors of butter. I will miss you dearly, dairy.

To my secret guilty pleasures (Civil War Reenactments, Meg Ryan movies, Muzak, Dudley Moore): I hope I never made you feel less-than-worthy, and I publicly embrace you here and now, in front of my dog and everyone.

To Donny Osmond, Henry Rollins, Ed Harris and Robert Downey, Jr.: You all had your chances (at different stages of my life) and you all blew it. I hope you can live with that, at least for another 36 hours or so.

To Father Time: You really know how to mess with someone. I suppose you think it’s funny putting life phases alphabetically—adolescence next to beauty, enthusiasm, hormones and ignorance, and then placing maturity right after libido but in a package deal with perspective, stones (kidney, gall et al) and vertigo. Ha. Ha.

To all my “skinny” clothes: I should have released you into the wild ages ago, so you could enjoy a normal size 12 life instead of living a lie on my size 14 body. I was selfish and wrong.

To my kids:  I’m kidding! The world isn’t ending! Do your homework because there absolutely will be school after the winter break. Who wants cookies?

If, for some crazy reason this Friday is not the Big Bang Redux, I would like to politely request that you simply recycle the newspaper and smile politely when we meet again at the grocery store. I will be the one replenishing my dairy case, maybe with Iron Man on my arm.

Kim Luke is probably enjoying the end of the world on the couch with her kids watching Grease. To contact her in the afterlife, write to This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .


**There are actually 800,000 people of Mayan ancestry still alive, but probably not a lot of them are calendar makers.

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