The world was supposed to end last Tuesday. A TikTok prophet had a vision. People magazine reported that more people were Googling the rapture than Taylor Swift. The Onion posted a meme of an exploding beam of light in the sky with the headline “Returning Jesus Christ downed by U.S. Missile Defense 30,000 feet before making landfall.” Believers were busy preparing for their escape from The Tribulation: seven years of chaos and doom. Or maybe it’s just the upcoming election season.
Either way, as of this moment, I’m still here. Unless the AI experts are right, and we’re all actually living in a simulation.
In the meantime, life goes on. I measured two tablespoons of Café Bustelo into my Moka pot. I went to the gym. I sat at my desk and stared out the window. There were men speaking Spanish while they installed central air units on the condo next door. I took my dog Riley for a walk.
And that’s when I saw it. A tiny dog with a collar that said Service Animal trailing a leash on the sidewalk. Suddenly, a woman appeared out of nowhere, like some kind of theatrical apparition. She was dressed in what looked like dozens of printed scarves, her arms adorned with stacks of bangles and tattoos. She was pushing a cart overflowing with stuff. Her hair was long and black, her lips painted flaming red, her eyelashes like awnings in front of clear, blue eyes.
“He’s friendly!” she said reassuringly as we approached. Riley walked over for a sniff and her little dog snapped into feral mode. “It’s OK,” I said, tugging Riley back.
I introduced myself and asked if she lived nearby. “I’m living right there,” she said pointing toward the narrow stairs between two condo buildings.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“I’m the Gypsy Lady,” she said proudly. “I’m gifted.”
She explained how she could read people’s light and energy. I wondered if she could read mine. But she was late for an angel-card reading at my neighbor’s house down the street. As she walked away, I noticed the two enormous white wings attached to the back of her coat. Of course she had wings.
Who knew my neighborhood had its own “Wizard of Oz” Professor Marvel? The fortune teller who convinces Dorothy to get home to Aunt Em before the cyclone hits. My Gypsy Lady wasn’t exactly prophesying the cataclysm, but she carried the same liminal energy. I took it as a sign to pay attention.
A few hours later, a package arrived. It was a giant bag of peanut M&Ms. At first I thought it was a cruel joke. I’m in the middle of a 21-day sugar detox. But tucked inside was a postcard and it dawned on me. I’d jokingly asked for postcards and peanut M&Ms in a recent “Betty Diaries” sign-off and a reader had kindly obliged. I put the bag in my freezer till the end of the detox. Apocalypse be damned. These are the signs of life we live for. These tiny, perfectly timed moments of absurdity and grace.
Not everyone’s week is punctuated with such tender mercies. For some, life ruptures instead of raptures.
The next day, I drove home from an appointment past a row of flashing lights near Prospector. ICE agents had conducted a raid near Sidewinder Drive, taking four people into custody. My mind flashed to the men installling the AC unit, to the workers I’d often see resting in the shade trees at the park, to my housecleaners laughing and chatting as they restore order to my chaos.
When ICE disappears people, there are no trumpets, no glory, no angels. Just black masks and families being ripped apart in the time I was getting my nails done. How are we supposed to make sense out of moments like these?
For some, the apocalypse arrives in unmarked cars and bulletproof vests. Some people get wings. Others get taken away in handcuffs. The apocalypse we joke about and the one real people are enduring depends entirely on where you happen to be standing when the sky falls.
A few days later, I had a gnarly crash off the rocky spine of the Crest Trail while mountain biking with a friend. “Are you OK?” he asked, pulling my bike off me.
“It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” I replied.
We pretend everything works because it has to. We stitch our rituals — the morning coffee, the dog walk, the school drop-offs, the mountain bike rides — into something we hope will hold us together. Fake it till you make it. Or at least until the world decides otherwise.