WRITE MY WILL!
*Crickets softly chirp*
*Smiles fade to an expression of grim resolve*
Yup. That’s what I thought you’d say.
It’s 2014. I’ve been married for 13 years, I’ve had children, I’m a mature woman with responsibilities, but if the unthinkable should happen, then I guess … maybe a … Viking funeral? The point is, nobody would know.
My husband and I have been paying a lot of lip service to the idea of doing our will, and finally the time is now. (The time was actually 13 years ago, but whatever, I forgive us.)
Believe me, it’s horrible. I’ve been crying non-stop about it, and all I’ve done so far is have a meeting with an attorney to discuss “first steps.” But no matter how much I personally hate talking about/thinking about/breathing the word W-I-L-L, this needs to get done, and if I leave it in the hands of my husband, it never will.
Cut to me: doing it by myself.
It’s OK. There are some things a person can’t handle, and this happens to be one of them. For reasons I do not know, for some reason generally, and I do mean generally, anecdotally, and not necessarily in a way that indicates a hard and fast rule about the gender divide — it’s harder to get dudes to think about drawing up a will … (She pondered aloud meekly, bracing herself for the inevitable blowback.)
And so I have grown weary of bolting up at 3 o’clock in the morning, my mind racing with thoughts of where my children would end up if we didn’t have a plan for them. A traveling circus? A roving band of charming 19th century Cockney chimney sweeps?
I’m tired of night after night of fret-sweats and underarm stress dampness — I’M MAKING A PLAN. THIS IS HAPPENING. Except in 2014, it’s not happening TO me, I’m happening to IT.
I mean, slowly though (as the river of tears issuing forth from my eyes threatens to short circuit my laptop).
Baby steps. Deep breaths.
Image courtesy of Flickr.
And on Facebook because that’s where we sometimes hang with the cool chicks (and 6 dudes).