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| Am I the only one who starts thinking morbid thoughts when the subject of life insurance arises? |
Maybe I'm giving this more thought because I just turned fifty or maybe because I've got a kick-ass cold at the moment, or maybe it's merely the obvious, that I'm strange. In those moments when the Huzby brings it up-- "I got a gazillion dollar policy on you and a gazillion one on me. That way if one of us dies..." (Allright. I'm exaggerating. It's not a gazillion.)--in my twisted, morbid way, I cannot help but play the thing out to it's natural conclusion.
Me: I just request that when you decide it's my time, I don't have to suffer too much or too long. Make sure whatever it is you have cooked up for me is merciful and quick. I hope that'll be enough for you and Candace to buy that second home in Cabo and you'll be very happy together.
This is all hallucinatory, of course. In the first place, I have never suspected my husband of wanting to kill me--at least not for a sustained period of time. (Who can say what horrid notion flashes through his brain in a heated argument? Only he knows for sure...) And secondly, as much as I would want my husband to be happy and well should I pass first I don't want him living the high life with that bimbo, Candace, in Cabo. Does this make me selfish?
To my knowledge, there is no Candace (bimbo or not) in our lives but regardless of the facts, I imagine Huzby hooking up with some large-breasted, wasp-waisted, thirty-something-year-old who can't keep her feet on the floor. She looks like a Candace to me. I can't help it. Really. What am I supposed to say? I just start to internally squirm. It feels crunchy talking about it and yet it doesn't seem to stop the conversation from rolling right along.
Him (understanding that I'm being sarcarstic and yet kindly trying to reassure me): It's just so if something happens to either of us we can--you know--afford to stay where we are or at least be able to sell and find something smaller. You'd probably want to find something smaller, right?
Me (hating to picture the scenario but doing it anyway): Yeah. This house is too big for me by myself. I guess you'd stay here, though, right?
Him: Yeah. I'd stay here.
End of conversation except for the fact that it plays on in my head.
Me: Right. There'll be plenty of room for you and Candy and all of her lonely, commiserating girlfriends who feel sorry for you and want to make you feel better because you just lost your wife.
Him: Sure. A bedroom each for the other three while I share the master bedroom with whoever it is who's keeping me warm and drying my tears that night.
Me: Wait a second. How come we never talk about me hooking up with someone else? It's always you who gets to be the swinging widower.
Him: OK. Your turn to be the wild, winsome widow. Who would you go for? Some twenty-five year old stud?
Me: Ugh. No. Twenty-five? Get outta here. That's way too young. He'd have to be somewhere in the neighborhood of my age. Otherwise, I'd feel too old. And I don't want to be someone's mother's age. Ick!
Him: So...who then?
Me: Silence
I have no answer. I am totally stumped.
How can it be that even in a fantasy I can 't come up with my dreamboat replacement for the Huzby? Am I lacking in imagination? This is not usually a problem for me. Is the Huzby (aka Mr. Grumpy) just so perfect in every way that he cannot possibly be improved upon? Hmm...This is a tempting out but in fantasies, anything is possible, so I can envision a slightly sunnier Mr. G (Mr. Not Quite So Grumpy), but he's still the self same Huzby. I am unable to conjure up a novel stand-in. I think it comes down to so dreading the vision of finding someone else, I honestly cannot come up with a surrogate because I don't want to.
What this means, I suppose, is that I truly am the one who should go first and that way I'll never be confronted with the problem. Still, thinking of the Huzby and Candace and her three friends enjoying the pay out from my life insurance policy at their Cabo condo is certainly motivating. It motivates me to take my vitamins and supplements, go to the gym, get enough sleep, eat well and take good care of myself.
Sorry Candy, but by the time you get your chance, your boobs will be sagging down to your widening waist and your feet won't be quite as prone to flight as they once were. Let's face it woman, by then Huzby's taste in women will have probably not have changed. So prepare yourself. I foresee a Veronica, Serena, Raquel, Alicia, Cherie, Romy or Babette on the horizon who's not so long in the tooth. So sad. Too bad.
Sheesh. Life insurance. What a buzz kill.
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| We may be getting older but we're not dead yet. |
