Didn't My Skin Used to Fit? Read Online Free PDF

him too well. He’ll have every intention of calling all my friends listed in our telephone book, but he won’t make it past the C s. It’ll be wearying to keep relating the same story over and over again, reliving all the details of how I left this world—especially if I go in some bizarre way like ‘‘The manager at the skating rink said it was the first time they’d ever lost anyone during the Hokey Pokey, but they’re still going to award her the free CD posthumously for all her efforts.’’ Or ‘‘We told her not to use the computer while in the bathtub, but she just mumbled something about a deadline, plugged it in, and deleted herself. We tried to save her as a text file, but we got there too late.’’
    However it happens, my husband will get tired of telling the same tale again and again and again, so he’ll just quit— right after the C s. My friends whose last names begin with the letters D through Z won’t find out about my demise until I’m missing from the family-photo Christmas card. I can hear the phone calls now.
    ‘‘Where’s Martha? I didn’t see her by the tree.’’
    ‘‘Oh, didn’t you know?’’ my husband will say. ‘‘She passed on six months ago.’’
    ‘‘Why didn’t anyone tell me?’’
    ‘‘I would have, but you weren’t in the front of the phone book.’’
    Linda and Mary understood my dilemma (most women can) and agreed to help my husband with the phone calls.
    The three of us then moved on to discuss where we wanted our remains to be buried. Living in both Los Angeles and Nashville, I wasn’t sure where I’d want my services, so I left the options open. I even entertained the idea of having a service in both places. I didn’t see a problem with that, especially since Linda, being shot off in a firecracker, would be having multiple resting places, too. Linda and Mary both opted for California since that’s where they live.
    Mary wanted the songs ‘‘In My Life’’ by the Beatles and Van Morrison’s ‘‘Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?’’ played at her service, and she wanted someone to read several poems, which she has selected. Linda mentioned she wanted ‘‘Muskrat Love’’ sung at hers, but I think she was kidding. I’m still deciding on the songs I want played, but ‘‘No One Ever Cared for Me Like Jesus’’ is definitely one of them.
    Next we talked about our choice of flowers. Mary wants irises or tulips. Linda’s favorites are daisies and pansies. Mine are magnolias.
    We also talked about whether or not we wanted to be organ donors and what parts of our bodies we would be willing to give to science. Not liking the prospect of science returning some of these parts (as defective), we decided not to worry about making these plans right now.
    In fact, we decided to change the subject altogether. It was getting way too maudlin. We each felt we had plenty of life left to live, and most of our plans still needed tweaking anyway. Especially Linda’s. She wants her funeral in Los Angeles, where fireworks are illegal. That would mean Mary and I would either have to get special clearance or get into a lot of trouble fulfilling her last wishes.
    And to tell you the truth, we’re not about to get arrested for shooting off a firecracker illegally, even if our best friend is in it.

    Despite the high cost of living, it remains a popular item.
—Anonymous

15

Are We Having Fun Yet?
    My husband and I spent last Fourth of July doing laundry at the local all-night Laundromat. What can I say? We’re still party animals after all these years.
    Actually it was my husband’s idea. I was ready to celebrate our nation’s birthday like it should be celebrated—an old-fashioned barbecue, picnic games, fireworks, a nap. But no, we had laundry to do.
    My husband didn’t see any problem with doing our laundry on the Fourth of July. He’s of the impression that the older he gets the less holiday excitement he can handle. He prefers nice quiet