The writing's on the wall of our half-finished underground bunker. You don't want to doomsday prep with me anymore.
I wondered why we're nine months behind—minimum!—in our apocalypse contingency plan. I mean, I've been hitting our prep plan from the moment I slip into my ERDL-pattern camouflage pants after work until I pass out at night hand sharpening the his-and-hers Bowie knives I bought for our anniversary. I thought maybe my timeline was overly aggressive, that I was pushing too hard too fast for full functional and operational readiness. I considered that maybe the current level of global and geopolitical strife wasn’t enough to instill the proper sense of urgency in you. But never in my wildest night terrors did I think that while I was pouring over the medicinal properties of deer antler spray, you were completely shirking your prepping commitment.
Then I spied on you. I needed to try out those mini spy cams I bought on that Uzbekistani website. I couldn’t target the neighbor kid, not after he reported us to the HOA and even turned the block watch against us. No biggie, they'll all be begging to use our stockpile of expired antibiotics once the coronavirus squiggles loose from the CDC. But when I logged in to the video feed over at Jerry's, I was shocked. You've haven’t just gone soft on me, honey; you’ve gone full-blown civilian.
Turns out you've been doing yoga when you should’ve been rotating our jarred veggies. You scrapbooked instead of going to the gun range for your weekly two thousand rounds. I knew I should have demanded to see your targets. The gas mask filters haven't been tested, our iridium detector needs new batteries, and our contingency escape route you were supposed to put together is a map of Paris. What's worse, you've loaded the DVR up with home remodeling shows, taping right over my American Heroes Channel documentaries. What good does a bright new backsplash do when martial law’s been declared? You had to know I’d uncover this during my annual audit.
Our last bug out exercise makes more sense now. You packed your go bag with all the essentials, but you also threw in a Victoria's Secret negligee, two long-stemmed roses, and a bottle of Prosecco. How you thought you could complete the five-mile hike in stilettos is beyond me. Also, you’ve never drunk my urine. Not once. When the zombie army created by failed military experiments wreaks havoc on our municipal water supply and we have to conserve our inventory, you'll be begging for a warm glass of my pee, trust me.
Look, anyone can get burned out. We all need a break from the thought of impending planetary doom once in a while. I get it. That's what those couples' survival retreats are for—to relax, unwind, and get back to basics. I’m talking about the simple pleasures of animal trapping and skinning, water collecting, bug-eating, composting. You know, the fun stuff. Jerry likes the fun stuff.
Honey, this crazy spinning planet is going down quick-like. Your problem has always been your need for specifics. You keep asking me what’s gonna happen. Well, if I knew whether we’ll experience a global financial meltdown, dirty bomb terrorist attack, nuclear mishap, or contested presidential election results, then I wouldn't need twenty seven distinct contingency plans, each with triple redundancy backup, now would I? What matters is setting ourselves up to thrive, not just survive, when the inevitable happens. That takes planning and prepping and pulling together. It means having someone you can count on in tough situations, someone who has your back. That's why Jerry is my new prepping partner.
I need someone who understands why I cashed out my 401(k) to buy a five thousand gallon water purifier. Someone trained in hand-to-hand combat and wrestles with the strength of a goddamn grizzly and the grace of a gazelle. Someone who watches my back. And drinks my urine. That someone is Jerry. His prep plan is inspired—he has thirty pages devoted entirely to maggot and grub farming—and the only indulgences it allows are smoking homegrown tobacco and the liberal application of beard oil.
I love you and always will, but I have my survival to prioritize. I’m not divorcing you, I’m merely divorcing myself from your lackadaisical prepping attitude. We’ll still have our Tuesday night date nights. We can even listen to your Miles Davis albums every other weekend, right after I help Jerry build his new wind turbine. And when the apocalypse comes, forcing every man, woman, and child to fend for themselves, I’ll be hunkered down with Jerry. He and I will be stroking each other’s freshly-oiled beards, but I’ll also be rooting for you.