I don't want to be morbid, but I am a practical man. You kids will recall that Lori and I have spent far too much time moving from place to place in our married life. I believe the last count was five homes and three states in the last six years.
When we moved four times ago, into the home where we planned to spend the rest of our days, I was so adamant about never moving again that I fully intended to pass away the night before trash day, so Lori could just throw me in a Hefty Tear-Pruf Heavy Duty trash bag and drag me to the curb.
The more I think about it, though, I'd like to go with style.
What prompted this?
We saw this on our weekend drive.
Far be it for me to judge (a lie: I always judge. Call me Judgey McJudgerson.), but I am not a soccer mom. I don't want to be a soccer mom. I don't want my last ride in a wheeled conveyance to include stow-and-go seating. I don't want anyone to be picking Cheerios and gummi bears from out of my coffin, and I don't want it covered in sticky handprints and Sponge Bob paraphernalia.
(Are the kids still watching Sponge Bob? I'm so out of touch.)
I like the Cadillac in life, and to me, that's the classic way to go.
Harold and Maude fans out there, I could settle for this:
And because I ride, and there's just as much a chance that I'll go that way as any other rider, I'd take this, too.
Because just because I'm not cool in life doesn't mean my last act above ground has to be equally nerdy.
Oh, Just Shut Up and Lie Down Somewhere
4 weeks ago