Would you just die if I told you that i was writing my own obituary? Is that conceited? Is it weird?
Yes, I AM really and truly, fo’ sho, writing my own obituary. I decided many, many moons ago that very often what is shared in obituaries is most often the glossy truth and sometimes out and out lies. Now, I know that when it comes to remembering someone, we should remember the good and not the bad. I am also here to say that it is very often the character flaws that make us who we are. Sure, we all have the chance to hone good characteristics and traits but I must stand firm on this point: our imperfections are what make us human and endearing.
Sure, list that I have been a PTA president…just make sure to follow it with what a lousy PTA president I was. Yes, I have 4 children whom I love dearly but please–don’t preface it with the words “Angel Mother” or “Worlds Best Mom” because I’m not. Nor have I ever claimed to be. Why should we claim something in death that really wasn’t true in life? Dunno. Doesn’t make sense.
I have left specific instructions to my husband about my death and what I want to happen. So far, there are only 2 rules:
1. I want the words “Some Pig” engraved on my headstone. Yes, just like Charlottes Web (which is one of the best books in the entire world, by the way.)
2. I want a fiesta instead of a funeral luncheon. Sombreros optional. I want a party with good food and lots of laughter. (I also want people to remember me a few hours later when the refried beans come back to visit.) How’s THAT for going out with a bang?
I don’t trust him with my obituary, however. That is why I have taken matters into my own, still very alive, hands.
I don’t want people to remember me the way they THINK they remember me. I want them to remember me the way I truly am–ugly truths and all. Do I want to be remembered as someone who laugh loudly and irreverently and most often at the misfortunes of others? Yes. I do. Do I want to be remembered as the girl who could be a huge pain in the ass? Yep. That’s me! Do I want to thought of as the sometimes spacey and clumsy chick that I am? Why, yes. All of those things (and so many more) are what help make me, me. The list could go on and on forever but I’m not going to share it all here. When I die, you’ll just have to read my obituary to find out.