Of 1:37 and the Day After

Howdy, folks. This blog post is coming to you a little late, and it’s definitely not the one I had planned. The one I was working on was pretty light and funny, and it will debut on March 15 as normal. After recent events in my personal life, however, I’ve switched to this one, which (spoilers) will not be quite so fluffy and happy.

This blog has always been about what’s on my mind, about what I’m feeling. That’s why it covers anything from museums to pop culture, author stuff, and a bunch of one-offs. While I won’t go into the events that precipitated this post, this is the topic that I need to write about in this moment. If you came here looking for something to brighten up your day, this won’t be it. Tune back in on the Ides of March (a day which definitely doesn’t have any bad things associated with it), and that should be more your speed.

Still here? Cool.

The Day After

Right out of the gate, let’s contemplate our own mortality. (See, I told you.) In fact, let’s go beyond even that — let’s take a second to think about the day after we’ve shuffled off this mortal coil. At some point in the future, there will come a day we don’t see. I know we don’t like contemplating that kind of thing, but for our thought experiment here, let’s try to gaze forward to the first day that you’re absent.

What happens on that day? Who do you leave behind? Who, on this day, is mourning your loss, but still has to go into work? Who is it that’s making arrangements for your funeral, whether it’s a simple memorial or a grave-side service? Who will be devastated and unable to comprehend your loss, and who might hear of your passing from a friend of a friend and simply shrug it off?

The fact is, as far as the world at large is concerned, it will probably be a pretty normal day. There will still be bills to pay, dishes to wash, clothes to fold, and a hundred other mundane things that will go on as normal. It’s a sobering thought, since most of us are born into obscurity and will likely die without our lives being known to the world. There are exceptions, of course, but for most of us, we will only be remembered on our Day After by those who were closest to us.

As depressing as this notion could be, I look at it from the opposite viewpoint. What I take from our Day After is that the world goes on. Life goes on. None of us are so important that the world stops turning if we leave it. Sure, not every Day After is weighted equally, but even in the cases of JFK and MLK, collectively, we kept going. We didn’t stop. That’s the way it should be.

I’m in no way trying to say that a Day After is easy for your closest survivors. It isn’t. Coping with grief and loss is one of the hardest things that we as humans are tasked with doing. Unfortunately, our lives give us ample opportunity to learn this lesson again and again and again. It hurts, it sucks, and we all hate having to go through it. Depending on the loss, some of us get stuck, unable to find our way forward through the first four of the five stages of grief.

And even if we make it all the way through, we’re changed. Emotional scar tissue is often cumulative. But, even in our darkest place, we can be sure that the sun will rise again, that people will behave like idiots in traffic, and that those closest to us will still need to decide on what to do for dinner each night. Yeah, the world goes on.

I think by looking at our own Day After, we can get a sense of this. We won’t be around to see it, but it’s a humbling thought to entertain. It’s also a reminder that our time here is limited, so we had better get to living.

In the words of Paul Bettany’s Vision, “A thing isn’t beautiful because it lasts.” The older I get, the more that one quote resonates with me. It is my sincere wish that your Day After is many decades away. Personally, I’d love to know that you made it to triple digits and beyond. So, live long and prosper, y’all.

1:37 p.m.

Okay, for something a shade lighter, let’s talk about the time 1:37 in the afternoon (or 13:37 for our Veterans) and why that time is particularly special to me. So, when I was twelve, I suddenly found myself in a new city, a new school, and completely new environment. To say that I had culture shock was a massive understatement. I had no friends, and I was far from both sets of cousins who had always acted as brothers and sisters to me, as I’m an only child. A lifelong introvert, I found it difficult to adjust to these surroundings. Every day seemed like an eternity, nearly unendurable, and the amount of homework I had would often leave me with little time in the evenings to myself.

I could feel that I was quickly falling into despair, so I did something to help myself cope with these new circumstances: I told myself a story. I cast myself in the role of a master spy on a mission. If I went to my Texas history class, it was because my agency had sent me to Texas to look for vital clues. If I went to my engineering class, it was because I was studying the spy technology of the opposition and trying to gain the technological edge in the field. My math class was a complex cipher the enemy used, and each math problem brought us one step closer to breaking it. Finally, I took French that year, so naturally that was when my clues led me to France, and I had to blend in by speaking the language. It was probably more Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego than From Russia with Love, but it gave me a way to go about my day and reframe the situation to my liking.

During this time, I wore a calculator watch (yes, I’m that kind of nerd), but that also played into the gadgety spy game I was playing in my head. My French class was the next-to-last class of the day. From there, I went to Athletics, which I imagined was either going undercover or drills for my agent training. Once Athletics was over, it was the end of the day, which was a great relief. When we would line up in the gym, from my spot I could see out a set of double doors to the green football/track field beyond. Centered in that view was an office building. It wasn’t particularly tall or avant garde, but I saw it every day. Seeing this building filled me with hope. Still to this day, I give it a salute when I pass it.

But, back to French class. As it would draw to a close, I found that I would look down and see that it was 1:37. I never meant to do it intentionally, but almost like clockwork, there it was: 1:37. It meant that I had only a few minutes left before we went to Athletics, and then the end of the day was close at hand. That specific time, like the office building, gave me good feels. In the case of both of them, it meant: You’re almost there. Don’t give up. Keep going. You can do it.

I will still find myself looking up as I go about my day and smile if I see that it’s 1:37 in the afternoon. My days now are more like 9–6 than the 7:45–3:30 times I had back then. The time isn’t quite as close to the end of my labors, but it is more than half-way. So, it still represents a reminder, on particularly challenging days, to hang in there and finish up strong.

And now, I’m giving it to you. If you’re reading this, you have my permission — nay, my blessing — to use 1:37 if you find yourself at the crux of circumstances and don’t know what to do. There’s two ways you can use this. First, if it’s before 1:37 in the afternoon, keep fighting until you get to it. Second, if it’s 1:37 or later, keep fighting to the end of the day.

In other words, keep fighting. Cue up some inspirational power chords if you need to, just don’t give in, and don’t give up. You’re stronger than you know.

1:37 p.m. on the Day After

So, let me pull these two threads together. One day in the future, and I hope it’s many long years from now, my own Day After will come. Assuming the circumstances of my death didn’t involve an asteroid strike, nuclear armageddon, or some other extinction-level event, I’m going to guess that it will pass without much in the way of fanfare. On that day, there will come a 1:37 in the afternoon that I won’t be around to see or appreciate.

Some will grieve me, but most of the world will keep right on chugging along, business as usual. But you know, I’m okay with that. Like I said, the big wheel keeps on turning. Life waits for no one.

I just have one request if you find yourself alive during my Day After. If you should happen to look up in the days that follow and see the time of 1:37 post-meridian on the clock, think of me.

It will be like me whispering to you from beyond:

You’re almost there.

Don’t give up.

Keep going.

You can do it.