Things I just don’t care about

I care about a lot of things. I care about family and friends and community. I care about politics and social trends, and I care about my garden. I care about words and language and kindness and grammar and manners. 

I care a lot about greeting people, and I probably care a bit too much about “their” and “there”, and “where” and “were”, and “weather” and “whether”. I care about the actual weather, medical stuff, and making sure I don’t die of something embarrassing. Because that would be embarrassing. 

But what I don’t care about is aliens. And I care even less about whether dinosaurs did or did not walk the earth. Or what their names were. Because, honestly, who cares? 

I should say that I think I might believe dinosaurs existed. I’ve seen the skeletons in very dull museums and I’m prepared to accept that someone has done the necessary work. I just don’t feel the need to follow the story any further. If a scientist discovers a new dinosaur tomorrow, I’ll be pleased for the scientist. I won’t need to see photographs. 

Aliens are different because, as far as I know, we haven’t found any. But even if we did, I’m not convinced I would have the energy to get involved. I imagine I’d have questions. Are they friendly? Do they understand personal space? And have they come all this way to ask whether I’ve considered investing in a funeral policy? 

Beyond that, I’d probably check the news, mention it to someone, and then return to whatever I was already worrying about. 

Add to the list the question of how G-d calculated the six days of creation. Whether each day was 24 hours, 26 billion years, or something else entirely is not something that keeps me awake at night. I trust G-d with pretty much everything else, so why would I need to check His calculations on something I know I don’t have the capacity to understand in any event? 

At 120, when I meet my Maker, assuming there’s an opportunity for questions, I have a list of things I’d like to discuss. The dinosaurs and the length of the first Tuesday don’t make the top 20. 

I’m aware that these questions matter a great deal to other people. For some, the origins of the universe inspire a sense of wonder. For others, exploring the relationship between science and faith is a serious pursuit. I’m grateful that there are people willing to think about things that I would struggle to explain even if I had been paying attention. 

And that’s probably where my confidence becomes a little less impressive. Because while I’m comfortable admitting that I don’t understand creation, I’m less comfortable admitting that I don’t understand someone who steadfastly refuses to learn the difference between “lend” and “borrow”. 

The truth is that at 120, I imagine arriving with my list of questions for G-d, carefully arranged in order of importance. But before I get very far, I suspect He might produce a list of His own. 

It will probably be longer than mine. And considerably more specific. He might ask about the times I was impatient, the things I said that I thought were funny, and the people I assumed would be fine because I was. 

I can already hear myself trying to explain. “Yes, but You don’t understand. He said ‘borrow me your pen’.” And I can already imagine the response. 

“I created him too, Howard.” 

Strangely, I imagine Him saying it in exactly the same tone as my wife.