Considering the serious health scares and other assorted scrapes with death I have survived over the years, I'm sure that like the proverbial cockroach I will emerge intact from the rubble of a nuclear holocaust, merely shaking the dust of civilization from my clothes as the eviscerated remains of my neighbors disappear into mushroom cloudy nothingness.
Alas, I am not the ideal rebuilder of a devastated society. I'm more likely to reinvent the espresso machine before getting around to the wheel. In fact, as a bona fide homebody I probably wouldn't bother with the wheel. I'd be quite happy to simply loaf about in whatever ash-strewn ruin I'd be calling home. What's more, I'd spend more time cultivating my vineyard than tending my vegetable patch. As for animal husbandry, I don't see that happening. I'm certainly not slaughtering anything and unless my wife volunteers to do the milking there's going to be no dairy in the post-apocalyptic future. If you're going to survive also I hope you're more responsible than I am, for both our sakes.
Mother Nature's fury, on the other hand, would definitely assure personal my destruction. Even the feeblest of waves is enough to knock me into the undertow when I'm paddling at the beach, so I'm not waving but drowning if there's a tsunami while I'm sprawled on a sunlounger at the water's edge. I couldn't outrun the lava flow if Vesuvius erupted as I was touring Pompeii and an earthquake is going to swallow me whole and spit out the crushed bones afterward.
So for selfish reasons, I hope the end of the world is manmade. I can see myself as owner-operator of Omega Man Coffee and Wine Bar: a little taste of Armageddon in the desolate wasteland under where the sun used to be. Management reserves the right to refuse admittance. No bare feet, no weeping sores, no mutated heads or eyeballs hanging out of sockets. Service with an ironic smile.