During my recess career at Junction Avenue Junior High there were two words that when spoken were the reset button of just about any competition save for maybe dodge ball. If there was ever a discrepancy in a call, whether the ball hit the line of the four-square grid or the tether pole was wrapped one more than was counted, shouting “do-over” would reset the context and present a new opportunity.
I wonder if this isn’t why apocalyptic films still have some draw at box offices. I thought this while enduring the film 2012 this morning. The end of times still seems to hold some fascination as opposed to the mundane quotidian proper rotation of this ol’ orb. How boring, let’s shake it up. Or, life isn’t fair (a brilliant little quip taken from 2012). So let’s hope John the Revelator was not only right, but more contemporary than we thought.
Economy sucks, upside down in a real-estate deal, divorce number nth, hocked assets and tumbling liabilities. Or, or possibly even and, won’t it be great when, I just can’t wait when, four more years then. Current failures and future prospects or lack of them seem enough impetus to reboot.
Not to mention wickedness. Clean things up around here, improve the neighborhood and turn those property values around. And laundry would be reduced to whites.
I’ll admit I used to welcome the latter-days. I’d even dream about it, the death and destruction, the glory and redemption, the welcome respite from bills, and lists, and stewardships, and promises. Yuck. To the convicted there seems to be more certainty in lifting the veil than there is in simply living a good life every single boring day.
I don’t feel that way anymore. I got a do-over, nothing involving angels or horsemen unless you count cardiac care nurses and errant pharmaceuticals. Mine involved my damaged pump and hearing my own telemetry indicate that I may be more apocalyptic than what I wanted. That’s cliché in and of itself, I know, living every day as if it were your last. What’s more apocalyptic than that? Since, though I’ve been living every day as if it were followed by another.
See, there’s a pile of clean laundry in a basket on the floor of our bedroom and when I get home this afternoon I’m going to fold it and put it away because in subsequent days I’ll be again reaching for another black t-shirt. At least I certainly hope so. I’ll fold it because that’s what we do and because there’s some gratitude shared that goes with the task. And my kids will be joining us this weekend and I’ll probably make beef stroganoff and enjoy the meal around the table and the banter around the island in our kitchen. So, I’ll go shopping. And I need to change the oil in the car.
We’ve all had enough crap happen to warrant a shout to the heavens, do-over. But I’ll go on this record saying that I’d much rather figure out where to file my boxers than dodge earth’s fissure as it divides my gate. I’ll take that last swallow of milk left in the jug over pestilence and disease. And you know that extraordinarily awkward time when you recall that there’s no more toilet paper while preparing to use some? That trumps war and famine any day.
I like life and all it has to offer and am perfectly content betting that John was more figurative.