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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. 
2 comments:
Well, FTF, since things are a little tight right now in the Manager household, you might have to settle for an extra turkey meatloaf, delivered to your front door.
Good luck with the application. At first, I thought I'd feel better after I was approved; then, I came to the realization that I was worth WAY more dead than alive.
Still hoping that Manager Dad hasn't figured that out yet.
I felt like this until I got my revised will signed after my divorced. When I finally signed the papers I was doing the happy dance in the lawyers office and she was looking at me like I was crazy and commenting how "refreshing" it was to have a client who was so happy to be signing their will - how most people are in a state of complete denial about it and don't even want to look at the page as they are signing.
But for me it was such a relief to know that if I fell under the proverbial bus (or was on the plane that had a frickin' CAR SIZED HOLE ripped in the fuselage (WTF?!!!!) that my kids were going to be looked after.
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