Bury me With my Boots Off

Hubby has a way of hitting me up me with funny questions on a daily basis. Like today when he called right before I got ready to run and said, “Guess what I just had?” He proceeded to tell me he had just polished off a foot long chili dog at the Dairy Queen an hour away from here known for its “foot of chili”. Doo doo head.

That’s still better than the question he posed to me the other day. We were truckin’ down the road, and out of the blue he asks, “What do you want to be buried in?” (Insert wrinkling of my brow here.) I said, “What?”
“What do you want to be buried in?”
“Are we talkin’ coffins or cemeteries because I thought we had settled the cemetery thing?”
“Clothes. What CLOTHES do you want to be buried in?”
“Oh. I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”
“Well, I need to know in case you go first.”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. Just pick out something nice.”

But that wasn’t a good enough response. He kept pestering me for a solid answer. I think our preoccupation with death and funerals lately got him to thinking about our own funeral plans, and he’s a detail man. He wants specifics. Me? I kind of wing it on a lot of things, and I already know what he wants to be buried in because he’s been telling me for years that it should be jeans, a white button down shirt and casual shoes. Got it.

Truth be told, I just don’t like to think about my own mortality. I’m afraid I’ll jinx myself into getting hit by a bus. I never really gave him an answer that day and hoped the question would go away. A few miles down the road he finally told me, “Well, if you were to die soon and I didn’t know what you wanted to be buried in, I think I would pick one of your Jimmy Buffett concert t-shirts and those cute khaki shorts that go down to your knees. You know, the ones you had on the other day.”
“Hmmm. Works for me.”

And you know what, that does work for me. It’s simple, casual (I want to go casual) and it’s reflective of my personality. I did tell him to leave me barefoot because I hate wearing shoes. And to give my large diamond wedding band set to Teen Angel and bury me with my smaller original wedding rings. Is all of this burial talk making you uncomfortable yet? It makes me uncomfortable just thinking about it. But not as uncomfortable as that foot of chili is going to make him by bedtime tonight. Doo doo head.