I was sitting on my couch, mid-scroll, when the building decided to do a little shimmy.
My first thought was that my upstairs neighbor had finally bought a washing machine with a spin cycle designed by NASA.
My second thought, as the water in my glass started doing the wave, was that this was, in fact, an earthquake.
So I did what any modern American does in a moment of potential catastrophe: I opened the group chat.
The earthquake was a 4.8, which is the geological equivalent of a shrug.
It's enough to make your chandelier sway and your dog look at you with betrayal, but not enough to knock over your IKEA bookshelf, which is held together by one Allen wrench and prayer.
Still, it was a Tuesday, and I needed drama. "Did anyone else feel that?" I typed, fingers trembling with the adrenaline of a near-nothing event.
My friend Sarah sent a photo of her lunch.
My cousin Mike replied "felt nothing" from a state that is literally sliding into the ocean.
The group chat, a place where we once debated the correct way to load a dishwasher for four hours, had zero interest in my brush with tectonic terror.
This is the problem with earthquakes in America.
We want them to be a big deal, but most of them are just a gentle reminder that the planet is a giant, cracked egg and we're all just yolk.
The US Geological Survey will tell you there are roughly 50,000 detectable quakes a year, but most are so weak you'd confuse them with a truck rumbling by or your own stomach growling.
It had a name, a location, and a magnitude that made minor headlines.
For about 15 seconds, I was the main character.
My apartment was the epicenter of my personal disaster movie.
I mentally planned my survival: grab the dog, forget the laptop, definitely forget the sourdough starter.
The neighbor's washing machine—sorry, the Earth's crust—went quiet.
My moment of crisis was over, and no one had even sent a thoughts-and-prayers emoji.
Here's the thing about earthquakes: they are the most democratic natural disaster.
It shakes everyone in a 50-mile radius equally.
The billionaire in the penthouse and the guy sleeping in his car both feel the same confused jolt.
For a brief, beautiful moment, we are all equally clueless about whether to stand in a doorway or just keep watching Netflix.
So I sat there, slightly shook, and did what any reasonable person would do.
I texted the group chat again. "Seriously, no one?" And my friend Dave, who lives 2,000 miles away, replied with a single word: "No." I gave up.
The Earth went back to being mostly solid.
And I learned a valuable lesson: if you want sympathy for a natural disaster, don't go to people who have survived actual ones.
They will send you a picture of a sandwich.
The next time the ground shakes, I'm not telling anyone.
Final Thoughts
I'm just going to stand in my doorway, alone, and pretend I'm in a movie where the Rock saves me.