Yesterday I was doing laps in the pool at the Y, noticing how very deep the deep end seems and thinking how I really don’t want to drown in this ratty old bathing suit when I considered all the people who have read their own obituaries and the fact that the NY Times has 1300 obituaries pre-written and “in the morgue” ready to go. Hey, swimming back and forth and back and forth and back and forth is boring; even if one part of your brain is wholly focused on the mantra “don’t drown,” the rest tends to wander.
Anyway, this got me thinking about what my own obit should say, especially that first line, which needs to be a real zinger.
“In the end, she really was funnier on Facebook than in real life…”
“There’s something endearing about an adult whose favorite food to the end was peanut butter and jelly…”
“Against all the warnings, she successfully proved 8th grade teacher Mr. Maxwell wrong: you don’t actually need to know geometry to be a functioning adult…”
“She never did quite develop patience, but she did stop being in such a rush to do so. So there’s that.”
“She only ever learned five songs on the banjo, but she could play the shit out of ‘The Irish Washerwoman’ (so long as you were okay with the timing being off…and the notes).”
“She was a lot like Brigitte Bardot, except that she wasn’t blonde. Or famous. Or French.”
“Turns out, you can eat too much bacon.”