When I’m agonizing to my mother on the phone about how global warming is here, it’s getting worse, look at all the natural disasters, and what if it’s Armageddon? And what if the world is ending and I’ll never have a chance to bear children and let them run in wild grass and catch fireflies in their hair like I used to do? And there’s nothing more that I can do—already I recycle and reuse everything I can think of, I’ve stopped drying my hands with wasteful towels or unnecessarily consuming electricity by using a wall dryer, I’m switching all my cleaning products to Shakleee eco-brand, I don’t drive, etc., etc., and yet with all this there’s no way I can save the world alone.
I tell her I find myself almost getting angry at cars that idle on my street and push harmful fumes into the hair, at that lazy person who tosses his or her Styrofoam cup into the trash without a thought, or the rows and rows of evil bottled water at the grocery store. And I am starting to feel that in order to completely wipe out my carbon footprint I need to stop going places, consuming things, doing things, which essentially means I’ll need to die and instruct my parents to use my body as fertilizer.
To which my mother replies by calmly asking whether she needs to go inside and get nails and a hammer so she can nail me to the cross.
Jesus came to save the world, honey--NOT you, she says. Oh yeah. Right. Chill out.