I distinctly remember when my family watched the movie 2012 together in 2009.

We arrived late to the packed movie theater, and most of the seats were already filled. That meant I had to sit away from my parents in the front corner of the theater, next to a slightly pudgy man with a thick Texan accent. Due to the mild trauma of this experience, every detail of the movie was engraved into my mind.

I spent the next week looking for “surface cracks” in the ground, stalking my neighborhood for signs of impending mega-earthquakes. I blame my paranoia on my excessively high-strung analytical mind and a lack of a physical outlet. And my fear of, you know, the world ending.

In all seriousness, to my 12-year-old mind, an apocalypse seemed like a romantic abstraction in the distant future that served as a test of character. It would allow me to examine exactly how people reacted when they knew they had only minutes left with their loved ones.

Would my parents be the ones to hijack a jumbo jet from a disintegrating Las Vegas to save my sister and myself by taking to the air? Or would I be the brave lass who leaped over cracks in the earth to reach my family trapped in a flaming building? Or maybe my family would be one of those who foolishly disregarded all of the signs of impending doom and sealed its own gruesome fate.

I know, morbid thoughts for a preteen. I mean, I never really believed in an apocalypse; I was 99.9999 percent sure that the world just seemed too solid to come to a spectacularly sudden ending. It was just entertaining to think about that other ten thousandth percent, specifically all the possibilities it entailed.

Maybe it was a personality-building exercise. Would I be the weak link, the coward in the corner who prevented us from taking initiative and saving our lives in a spectacular airborne escape? I sincerely hoped not.

So, in reality, I have conspiracy theorists to thank for my sparkling integrity and courage.

As we all know, the world didn’t exactly end on December 21. But our misunderstanding of the Mayan calendar did make for some good television. And while I sat curled up in front of my television yesterday, watching Countdown to Apocalypse on the History Channel, I asked myself if I was satisfied enough with where I was in my life to die happy.

If I was to die at that very moment, I wouldn’t be very happy with my last words (“Can you get me some orange juice”). I wouldn’t be happy with my last day (watching crackpots on the History Channel) or my last meal (peanut butter cups) or my last workout (never). And I wouldn’t be completely happy with the person I was. My soul-searching revealed a mixed bag of character traits.

But why does it take an apocalypse to make us examine ourselves? Take periodic moments to check yourself. My New Year’s resolution last year was to make sure I was happy with the last thing I said to my mom before I went to sleep. I abandoned it subconsciously after about three months, but I’m looking forward to continuing it in 2013. Provided that there aren’t any apocalyptical interruptions, of course.