Monday, July 28, 2008
I’m gonna die.
Well, not next week or anything (or at least not as far as I know), but to have a kid is to get hit in the face with a mortality bat. We’re all gonna die. And while I may have known about this in the pre-parenting days, I didn’t really believe it. But that’s not the most surprising thing about facing death. What is surprising is that I’m okay with it.
No, I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to outlive my son. And since I don’t expect him to live forever, I have to think about my own demise. If the FTS can make it into his 20s as a healthy, happy young man and embark on his own crazy journey, well, then let fate do what fate has to do. Besides, Social Security, AARP, false teeth, unbridled impatience, and a walker don’t seem all that great to me.
BUT(and notice that is a big “but”), I am terrified of going early. Specifically, I’m terrified of going before my life insurance application is approved.
I’m writing this post from the Continental Airlines frequent flyers lounge, and I can’t help but reminded of a news story from earlier this week:
(Associated Press) The 346 passengers were cruising at 29,000 feet Friday when an explosive bang shook the Qantas jumbo jet. The plane descended rapidly. Oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling as debris flew through the cabin from a hole that had suddenly appeared in the floor.
It wasn't until they were safely on the ground after an emergency landing that they realized how lucky they had been: A hole the size of a small car had been ripped into the Boeing 747-400's metal skin and penetrated the fuselage.
A car-sized hole in the fuselage? I’m about to get on an airplane to Phoenix -- it’s the first in a series of seven business trips over the next three months -- and I still don’t have my ****ing life insurance!
I recently gave blood, urine, and my net worth to a series of total strangers, and am now waiting for the privilege to pay $1500/year to some mega corporation that will hire teams of lawyers to make sure my wife and son never see a dime of insurance money should I meet an untimely end. (And yet, somehow, it still gives me piece of mind. I can be such a slave to convention.)
So, dear friends, should you read about a Continental plane slamming into the Continental divide, dig deep into your pockets and pledge a donation to the FTM and the FTS. (I’m still working on a mechanism for donating to an anonymous blog; in the meantime, you can just leave a paper bag full of money on the north bound side of the Springdale train station. In fact, no need to wait for me to croak. Leave the money now.) I thank you.
Posted by The FTF at 10:05 AM