These days, do you ever find yourself wondering about eschaton, doomsday, apocalypse? I do. No reason in particular.

Apocalyptophiles have a handy acronym for the stage of human existence that comes after the fan is hit by that which should never be in proximity of a fan. When the SHTF, they tell us, they intend to be ready. Lately I’ve been wondering whether the preppers are on to something. What if 2020 to date turns out to be a mere amuse-bouche to a banquet of catastrophe yet to come? What if an electromagnetic pulse takes out the power grid, Kamala Harris becomes president, and the new James Bond movie is postponed yet again? Is there to be no end to our trials? What should we do to prepare? Yes, yes, I thought of the shotgun and the granola, but realistically, what can I do except make sure my flesh is tender enough that the last words I hear are a zombie’s compliments?

In a state of unease I went to the place where I always go when I need calm, soothing, reliable advice: the Internet. The SHTF folks have thought of a lot of things I hadn’t. Should I stockpile fuel? Vitamins? Ammo? Candles? I might be able to live off my land, for a while: There are a lot of slow-moving squirrels around here, and the other day I met a big, fat (juicy, protein-engorged) raccoon in my garage. I’m pretty sure I could catch him in a pinch. He seemed to be attracted by the smell of trace amounts of Coke Zero in the recycling bin, so he’s pretty desperate, or pretty stupid.

Man does not live on raccoon filet and squirrel stew alone, though. One helpful site advises me to station a barrel under the drainpipe to collect water runoff. Since I live near the beach I can picture what the water runoff will be like. Seagull-poop broth seems likelier to hasten my demise than delay it. I suppose I could set aside a few large bottles of water, but how long would even ten gallons of the wet stuff last my family of four?

Some retailers are eager to help us preppers out, notably Costco, which sells a $200 bucket containing 276 servings of freeze-dried mozzarella. Or if you’re thinking long-term you can buy a $4,500 pallet containing 36 buckets of food intended to serve two adults with 1,600 calories a day for 18 months. The shelf life is 25 years and the meals — lentil-and-rice stew, mac and cheese — are 100 percent vegetarian. Because in the event of civilizational collapse we’d want to maintain our concern for animal rights as our neighbors wandered the woods with crossbows and rabbit traps.

That vegetarian prepper pallets are being sold to Costco customers makes me suspect prepping has stopped being a stereotypical right-wing phenomenon and crossed the aisle. Isn’t that a heartening development? Hey, we may be a divided country, but at least we’re all united in terror. What really marks the ascendancy of SHTF thinking is its reach into a seemingly brand-new market of hipster preppers. Call them prepsters: They’re meeting apocalypse with twee style. Soon, some clever entrepreneur will be selling eco-conscious handcrafted artisanal rifles designed as a tongue-in-cheek parody of macho weaponry, so hipsters can go hunting ironically. With their plaid shirts and bushy beards, they can head directly into the woods from their apartments in Bushwick, Brooklyn, and at least look the part.

In the meantime, Pottery Barn is selling an adorable $495 “Prepster Luxe Three-Day Emergency Bag,” a precious-looking cream-colored satchel labeled with a stylized version of the international cross symbol that indicates medical assistance. The target audience for this item seems not to take the prospect of societal collapse all that seriously; three days is not an apocalypse, it’s a weekend camping trip. Contents include a tent, poncho, gloves, playing cards, a solar charger for your phone, enough water to maybe take you from breakfast to dinner, a hipster chocolate bar (by Mast Brothers of Brooklyn), high-end Kusmi Tea endorsed by the Kardash­ians, and Vitamin E face moisturizer by Malin + Goetz so your pores will look their freshest as you negotiate the demon hellscape. Because you have that solar phone charger, you can compose one last sick burn on Twitter — take that, Mike Pence! — before being taken prisoner by the local cannibal warlord.

Another set of designer bug-out bags is available under the brand name “Judy,” which is stamped in bold black letters on the company’s signature line of traffic-cone-orange prepster kits.

The outfit’s best-seller, a stuffed backpack called the “Mover Max,” retails for $180 and offers 14 pouches of water, hand warmers, gloves, four blankets and ponchos, a flashlight, a handcranked radio, a towel, glow sticks, two whistles, and ten 400-calorie meal-replacement bars, most of this stuff emblazoned with the cheeky “Judy” logo. Judy? As in Garland? I’m not sure she was an icon of survival since she barely made it to 47, and that was without any nuclear fallout or zombie plagues to deal with.

On the less whimsical prepper sites, things are a bit more . . . elemental, with offerings like potassium iodide tablets (to disinfect the roof water, I suppose), a “toilet kit” that amounts to a bucket with a lid, and a “doomsday axe,” which is available in standard black or “pink tomboy edition” from DoomsdayPrep.com. Come to think of it, maybe our paranoid survivalist fancies are just as illustrative of our cultural divide as everything else. Old-school preppers seem to be envisioning The Road Warrior; style-conscious prepsters are thinking more along the lines of Moonrise Kingdom.