The End of The World

Now I can't imagine it's ever ideal to begin ones narrative with a title like ours, one that can only lead readers to the most obvious of conclusions: my Barbie pink high heels have been kidnapped. Stolen. Held hostage for ransom. Missing in action. Now perhaps it even invokes an illustration - me and my closest shoes, gathered around a small grave, heels held low in respect, for the tomb of the missing totally adorable shoe. But, no, alas, they are safely tucked in my closet at time of print.

Let's take a look. Yep, yep, there they are. Safe and sound.

So then with a title like ours, what is left? See overserved and forced to drink peach bellinis (forced I tell you!), an invitation to teach a creative writing class on literary construction of your "own planet" to a group of elementary school kids, and being made to watch movies like 2012 and History Channel documentaries on (insert our title here) by my boyfriend who clearly is not aware of my aptitude to be horrified by these things for days, and you have me, thinking about (insert our title here again), a lot.

I have always asked many questions. Why? But why? But then why? The reason I was single so long? Now so very obvious.
My father in order to put the final punctuation in my questions, said, "I think they just did that to make you ask questions, Rebecca."

That worked for a time - like most cork stoppers, but then air seeped in destroying the wine. As a (near) (alleged) grown-up I can't imagine the world functions on scientific principles doing things in strict order for purposes of making one Rebecca Simone Wareham ask questions.

Bluff I call on you Papa Wareham.

I don't blame him entirely. I was quite wordy, even then, and how was he supposed to enjoy his classic rock and the fine Los Angeles weather what with my blabbering in the backseat, and sometimes the front, and on the lawn, and in the rocking chair, and in my bed, and kitchen table. The man should have been able to eat in peace. But no, I had questions.

As a (near) (alleged) grown up, I give the internet most of my questions, and become satisfied with whatever lies it dishes and diseminates. And while the internet is valuable in this way, when it comes to people, well I never once did or do or will trust someone with a lot of answers.

See when you ask enough questions, you're bound to, by the simple laws of physics and nature and Jeopardy, get yourself an answer, even sometimes in the form of a question. So the end of the world at hand, seems a question, that lately, if you count Nostradomus as lately, so many have the answer.

Like so much of what I've described, and how I've lived, thinking about the end of the world - California cutting off at the San Andreas and floating in to the Pacific ocean, plates being shifted playing Twister with continents, hot spots getting damn cold, all of it ending December two years and change from now - well it just becomes two thousand and twelve questions. Questions that really have more to do with living, then ending. I wonder how people will live differently knowing as some do with many answers, that the world is ending. Would people not have that additional child to add to their family? Not move? Not start a business or invest or learn a new skill. Would life end before the end? Or would it, in cliche induced frenzy, start?

One car ride home from dinner, my boyfriend asked me what I'd do if the world ended.

"I don't care," I said.

I don't care I said, in my best twelve year old tween-ness bratty voice and tone and face. I don't care. But I don't I explained. I have control over so little. I am, at my most basic, a human, with responsibility to do my best, and a lot of trust in God seeing me through. If this is it, cool.

Cool.

But it clearly wasn't over then - because I didn't stop thinking about it. I've had dreams. And when my grandma brought up the 2016 Rio Summer Games, I did my best "eh I don't know those are happening for sure." It clearly has made me unnerved. And not in a way that makes me question my tween response. Only in a way that the questions, only build. Only in a way that can possibly be done, to make Rebecca Simone Wareham, of Valley Village, California - ask more questions.