Disaster Date

My parents are on a disaster preparedness kick. Its comforting in a way to hear them comparing folding shovels, debating about generators, discussing ropes, flashlights, hatchets, water, respirators, and all. Because I’m not part of the conversation, I get to feel like a safe little child in a bubble again. But I know The Meeting will come. The hard hat and clipboard meeting where I am walked through generator specs, combat crawling under the house to water shut-offs, and the mapped and scattered locations of the packed necessities.




But, I’ve kept my eyes open. Because I think I would hate myself if my parents were in the middle of all this prep, and there was a catastrophe and they were gone, leaving me knowing I had what I needed but completely lost to knowledge about it. I would die of irony overdose. So, naturally, I wish to avoid that.



So I attempt joining into their conversations with things like, “So you know when to get out of your vehicle if its flying over the edge into the ocean, right?” Or I start in on “If you’re in Puyallup and Mt. Rainier erupts do you know how much time you have and which direction you need to head towards?” I give them the valuable, life-saving info like a classified informant, and suddenly they’re talking about plastic water barrels again: without me. I didn’t get it at first.



But then it clicked. Talking, gathering, and planning about all that stuff is an excuse. It’s a perfect excuse to spend time together, stare into each other’s eyes, and forget about the world going down the drain. (That’s ironic.) Dad gets to impress mom with is manly, disaster skills and she gets to shop for cool stuff with him. No wonder I have to wait for the meeting: for now, its one big disaster date for two.





So, I’m still spying on their date over the past weeks, but you know, it is for the greater good and all that. I sit back and crank the radio flashlight that just appeared on the table, to play love songs from the 40’s until they look at me. I flip the breaker to see the loving panic. I talk loudly about oil shortages caused by Iran possibly forcing fuel prices to leap into the sky, while they sit chatting together on that chair made for one. Of course there are now-perks for me like all the knives I got in my stocking this year. But, honestly, they’re still on a date somewhere safe and warm, testing gloves and hypo-allergenic, indestructible canned goods.