Those stupid Mayans.
Due to their big "End of Days" prophecy, there was a part of me that actually enjoyed putting things off.
Why would I throw extra money at the mortgage when I could buy cute shoes instead? If all was truly lost, why not go out in style?
Furthermore, what was the point of skipping that extra piece of cake if nobody would be around to appreciate my big two-pound weight loss? I opted to perish FAT. And with slightly elevated blood sugar.
It wasn't like I went completely nuts. The kids still practiced the piano. I still did the laundry. I never missed paying a bill. Yet once we cleared the much-hyped Dec. 21 date, I grieved the loss of an easy out. "It's the end of the world!" disintegrated as a battle cry once the end of the world stood me up.
Now when people ask about my plans for joining a gym or registering as a bone marrow donor, I have no excuse. It's back to handling oil changes, locating income tax information, and replacing the filter on the furnace.
With all of my apocalyptic hopes and dreams dashed, I felt lost and directionless.
Yesterday, in an effort to cheer myself up, I began researching other doomsayers. Famed astrologer Jeanne Dixon, advisor to President Nixon, gave 2020 as the year of Armageddon. Ms. Dixon used to write a column for The National Enquirer. I have never-ever known The National Enquirer to be wrong about anything. Plus, Ms. Dixon also penned a horoscope book for DOGS.
The Mayans can't hold a candle to those kinds of credentials.
So I'm sticking with Jeanne. I have until 2020 to decide whether or not I should start a college savings plan for my kids. There are still seven years left before I can confirm that eating vegetables will be important to my long-term health. I've got time to kill before I know for sure if we really need to put extra money into our 401k.
And if 2020 flies by without so much an earthquake or planetary death rattle?
You will find me Googling "Nostradamus" from my fallout shelter, brimming to capacity with Fruit Loops and Cheez-Its.
I'm a planner that way.
Marianne is mother of three sons and the wife of a southside Irish fireman. She has learned that sometimes you're just too dumb to know what makes you happy. She blogs regularly at We Band of Mothers (webandofmothers.com) and curses with even greater frequency. Her material is written for the imperfect, the imprudent, and the impatient mothers who know that all this stuff is really very funny if you just give it a minute.
See more of Marianne's stories here.