This weekend, we're supposed to be hit by Hurricane Irene as she spits through the city, her final path of implicit destruction prior to her imminent dissipation.
It's my first time being in a hurricane, which leads me to believe I should be concerned. Grave voices on NPR, encouraging evacuation for anyone near the water (our apartment is oh, say, half a block from the river). Frantic texts from my mother, asking about our game plan.
Honestly, I don't have one. Normally I'm the first to freak out in nearly any situation, but today I'm not even concerned in the slightest. Our cozy DUMBO apartment seems an impenetrable fortress, double-paned windows framing our tenth-story perch. I'll buy water, batteries, fill up the bathtub; I just don't have it in me to panic, for once.
I turned 26 on Tuesday, in the midst of a mini-earthquake. That frightened me, but this just doesn't. Maybe I'm mellowing out, settling into my newly-acquired old age. Or maybe I've got too much other anxiety crammed into my head right now to go ballistic over the rain.
See you Monday, maybe. Maybe I'll be under water.