The Mayans Got It Totally Wrong

I live in a state of perpetual fear.

I can’t help it. I grew up in a stereotypically science-based Chinese family, surrounded by doctors and nurses and scientists. As a child, I was always bombarded with warnings of “don’t touch that, it’s dangerous” or “if you put that in your mouth, you’ll get cancer.” Apparently, with the exception of fruits, vegetables, and twice-boiled water, every single thing in the world was bad for me.

Growing in California certainly didn’t help things.

One of the hallmarks of growing up in California is going through regularly-scheduled earthquake drills. The adults were SO sure that “The Big One” was JUST around the corner and we were all doomed to a fiery death while learning about the differences between cirrus and stratus clouds.

At the beginning of the school year, we were all required to submit to our teachers little survival packs of crackers, water, maybe a mini-flashlight, in case The Big One hit and we were all trapped in the classroom. Then, about once a month, we all choreographed the "duck-and-cover" drill, in which we all got under our desks, assumed the "sitting fetus" position, and sat quietly while putting one arm over the back of our heads/necks (because that's totally going to stop a cinder block from knocking us unconscious). We’d wait quietly for about 30 seconds while the imaginary earthquake fake-destroyed everything in our room and probably fake-killed our teacher.

In the medical Pulmonary module at Georgetown, our professor gave us an excellent analogy regarding how to tackle medical education. “Think of it as throwing mud on a wall,” he quipped one morning. “You pick up some mud, you throw it on the wall. Some of it will stick, but most of it will fall off. So you pick up that mud again and you sling it again. You keep doing this until eventually, all the mud sticks. This is what you have to do for these classes. Keep  re-reading and re-memorizing this stuff until you’ve got it down pat. Sling that mud.”

Good thing we did so many of those earthquake drills, because 14 years later, I somehow remembered how to react to an earthquake.

I was eating at the Subway on Dupont Circle when suddenly my table started to shake a little bit. I thought nothing of it, thinking it was only a truck rolling by, or perhaps the bread-baking center melting down.

But the shaking got worse. My table slowly inched away from the wall. Immediately I changed my mind.

“An earthquake? In D.C.? Seriously?”

I grabbed the second half of my sandwich and calmly did exactly what I had done for those drills in grade school: duck under my table, wrap one arm around my neck, and continue eating my lunch as if nothing were happening. (In retrospect, this was a terrible decision. Duck-and-cover is a good maneuver in California where all buildings are quake-proofed and building damage is expected to be minimal. Duck-and-cover is a potentially life-ending, idiotic decision in D.C. where no buildings are quake-proofed and instead are built with bricks. Really hard bricks that can crush through tables and skulls.)

I giggled a bit as I watched all the Subway employees rush outside. The shaking continued for about 15 seconds, after which I also walked outside to take a look at what just happened. The streets were bustling with confused and freaked-out East Coasters. I walked by groups talking about how they saw their lives flash before their eyes. One admitted to saying his final prayers. I, being a smug, arrogant native of The Golden State, rolled my eyes and chortled to myself as I walked by, listening to this hilarious drivel.

The cherry on top: seeing two guys SPRINTING down the street after the quake had ended, as if they were running away from some invisible monster. All I could think was, “Guys. Where are you possibly going? What are you possibly running away from? You do understand that an earthquake goes, like, EVERYWHERE, right? Even Usain Bolt can’t outrun this business. Okay, maybe HE can. But your normal-human legs definitely can’t.”

I went to a bar to meet up with a couple of fellow Californians. The TVs were all tuned to CNN, where VULF BLITZAH was talking about how OMG THIS 5.8 CATASTROPHIC NIGHTMARE WAS THE WORST EARTHQUAKE ON THE EAST COAST EVERRR and HOOOLY SHIT THE WASHINGTON MONUMENT IS GONNA FALL LIKE A GORY GAME OF JENGA. The bar was surprisingly full for a Tuesday afternoon. I suppose it was all these poor folks could do to drown their terrible, awful memories of not-almost-dying.

And then, of course, Hurricane Irene hit us that very weekend. But that story is for another day. My grandkids will never stop hearing about the pride I take in surviving HURRIQUAKEPOCALYPSE 2011.
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The Bills are tied with the Packers for division lead. The Lions – THE LIONS! – are 4-0. My beloved Niners are actually winning, let’s forget about the “Dream Team” moniker for the Eagles, and heck, the Raiders aren’t looking too shabby either. Tack all this on top of an earthquake, a hurricane, the loss of Steve Jobs, and the imminent enslavement of humanity by iPhone’s Siri? Maybe Harold Camping’s Apocalypse prediction wasn’t so far off after all. Nor was Stanley Kubrick. (Since The Judgment is coming anyway, I’m going to go ahead and sin as much as possible every day.)

For those of you grieving for Jobs: grieve, for what has transpired indeed deserves it. But worry not. I’m pretty sure he’ll come back to life in 3 days.