Countdown to the Millennium Apocalypse

The year was 1999, and the air buzzed with paranoia, like the office after Brenda microwaved fish. Everyone was panicking about Y2K, that cosmic reset button destined to send the world spiraling into chaos. Planes were allegedly going to drop from the sky. ATMs would spew cash like drunk frat boys on a Vegas weekend. Toasters would rebel. Or so my mother explained to me while holding a Costco-sized bundle of powdered milk.

“This is survival food,” she said, cradling the cylindrical container like it was an infant. “In case the supply chains collapse.” Supply chains? My mother barely handled supply and demand in the kitchen. This was the same woman who once tried to make spaghetti with orange juice when we ran out of marinara.

“Mom, why powdered milk?” I asked.

“Because it lasts forever,” she snapped, her tone implying I was an idiot. Forever was evidently measured in the half-life of processed dairy. “What are you going to drink when the grocery stores are looted?”

“Probably whiskey,” I muttered, earning a glare so withering I almost evaporated on the spot.

Our basement had become a labyrinth of canned goods and bottled water. There was SPAM, lima beans, and peaches suspended in syrup thick enough to patch drywall. My father, an accountant and lifelong skeptic of anything involving hype, rolled his eyes at the stockpile.

“If the world ends, do you really think Vienna sausages are going to save us?” he asked, plucking a can from the shelf.

“At least I’m doing something,” my mother shot back. “What’s your plan?”

“Die with dignity,” he replied, popping open a Diet Coke.

Not to be outdone, my brother Kevin had turned his Y2K preparation into a science fair project. He’d rigged a generator to our lawnmower engine and was hoarding AA batteries like a dragon guarding its treasure. Kevin wasn’t concerned about civilization collapsing, though. He was worried his Game Boy would run out of juice before he finished beating Pokémon Red.

“It’s all about priorities,” he told me, soldering wires onto a device that looked like it could power a small submarine. “People are going to freak out when their Tamagotchis die at midnight.”

Meanwhile, my aunt Phyllis had declared herself the family’s prophet of doom. She carried a paperback copy of Nostradamus for Dummies and quoted it liberally at Thanksgiving dinner. “The great king of terror will descend from the sky!” she bellowed, waving a turkey leg for emphasis. “That’s clearly about Y2K!”

“Phyllis, that’s a meteor prediction,” my dad said, his tone dripping with the exhaustion of someone who’d spent three decades listening to her theories about UFOs.

“A meteor of digital terror!” she replied, undeterred.

Even my friends weren’t immune to the madness. Jenny, who once fainted when her Tampon applicator got stuck, announced she was going off the grid. She planned to move into her uncle’s cabin in the woods, armed with only a crossbow and “human ingenuity.” This was the same Jenny who cried during gym class when her shoelaces got tangled in the elliptical.

“What about plumbing?” I asked.

“I’ll dig a latrine,” she said confidently, as though digging a hole for your poop was some badge of honor.

Meanwhile, I was preparing for the apocalypse in my own way: by raiding the liquor cabinet. If the world ended, I wanted to be blissfully unaware, preferably with a gin and tonic in hand. I’d never been a survivalist. I barely remembered to charge my Walkman, let alone plan for the collapse of modern infrastructure. My contribution to our family’s preparations was organizing the canned goods by color. If the end was nigh, at least it would be aesthetically pleasing.

Mom’s intensity escalated in the final week of December. She added a wind-up radio to our stockpile and insisted we all rehearse emergency drills. This involved crawling under the dining table while she barked instructions like a doomsday drill sergeant. Dad spent most of these sessions pretending to “check something” in the garage, where he likely sought solace in his bourbon mug.

“We’re going to be the only family that survives,” Mom declared triumphantly after one particularly grueling drill. Kevin, sweating from the effort of dragging his generator under the table, muttered, “I’d rather not survive if it means living like this.”

New Year’s Eve arrived like a freight train of existential dread. Mom had us stationed in the living room for “Operation Midnight Watch.” The TV blared reports of revelers in Times Square, blissfully unaware of the chaos about to descend. Aunt Phyllis paced the room, muttering Nostradamus quotes under her breath. Kevin was upstairs, fine-tuning his generator like a mad scientist. Dad was in the kitchen, sneaking sips of bourbon from a mug labeled “World’s Okayest Accountant.”

“Five minutes to midnight,” Mom announced, clutching a flashlight like it was a holy relic.

“What exactly are we waiting for?” I asked.

“The end of the world,” Phyllis said, her eyes wide with apocalyptic glee.

“Or absolutely nothing,” Dad muttered, earning a sharp “Shush!” from Mom.

The countdown began. Ten seconds. Nine. Eight. My heart raced, though whether from fear or the three glasses of wine I’d consumed was unclear. Three. Two. One. Midnight.

And then… nothing. No planes fell from the sky. The lights stayed on. The VCR didn’t explode. Even the answering machine blinked innocently, oblivious to its supposed demise. We stared at each other, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

“Well,” Dad said finally, raising his mug. “Happy New Year.”

Mom, undeterred, declared the mission a success. “It’s because we were prepared,” she said, nodding sagely.

“Sure, Mom,” I replied, grabbing another glass of wine. “Sure.”

Kevin came downstairs, dejected. “Guess I didn’t need the generator after all,” he said, staring wistfully at his Game Boy.

Phyllis, however, refused to concede. “This was just a warning,” she said, wagging a finger at no one in particular. “The real apocalypse is coming.”

The days that followed were filled with a mix of relief and disappointment. Mom reluctantly began dismantling the basement stockpile, though she insisted on keeping the powdered milk “just in case.” Kevin repurposed his generator for a science fair project about renewable energy, which won second place—beaten only by a kid who cloned a potato. Aunt Phyllis doubled down on her Nostradamus readings, convinced we’d merely dodged a bullet.

Y2K passed into history as the great non-event of our time, a cautionary tale about overblown fears and humanity’s talent for catastrophizing. The powdered milk eventually expired. The canned goods were donated to a food drive. And the lawnmower generator gathered dust in the garage. But every New Year’s Eve, when the clock strikes midnight, I can’t help but think about that night. The paranoia. The canned peaches. The absurdity of it all.

And then I raise a glass to Kevin, Mom, Dad, and even Aunt Phyllis. Because if the end of the world ever does come, at least we’ll be ready. Or at least hilariously underprepared.