I’ve learned more about hurricanes this past six weeks than I ever cared to know. I know about eyewall replacement cycles, the effects of wind shears and warm Gulf currents on big bad-ass whorls of wind. I cover my nose and mouth and run at the sight of dead birds. The websites for the Center for Disease Control and the National Hurricane Center are at the top of my list of bookmarks. Meanwhile, the earth rumbles, and its ice caps silently melt into the ocean.
Whereas previously I laughed at my mother’s periodic frantic phone calls advising me to stock up on bottled water and logs, now I kind of nervously chuckle and eye that section of Dillons whenever I’m grocery shopping. The apocalypse aisle. Rational considerations and general college apathy cannot stand in the face of such terrible news. When birds fly overhead, or the wind picks up, I panic and check to see how full my gas tank is. I draw up plans to evacuate myself, my roommates, and cat safely in the event that my apartment complex bursts into flame. The boy and I have stockpiled alcohol.
Well, maybe that last bit has more to do with the fact that we like to drink. And maybe a high concentration of alcohol in a place is a poor defense against apartment fires. But for the other apocalyptic scenarios that could occur, the bottles of cheap wine and good whiskey shall do perfectly.
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