I guess I should have known the “you are going to die junk mail” would happen. It happens to all of us sooner or later. Well, if you live long enough.
I was sitting at the table eating a steak and spinach salad. Both the steak and the spinach were on the “iffy” side, chronologically speaking.
I picked up the current stack of mail that would soon be moved across the table to the old stack of mail, the bulk of which is periodically dumped into the overflow box. The overflow box gets cleaned out about once a quarter. Usually, because we’re frantically looking for something important like a $10 off coupon from Quaker Steak and Lube or a jury summons.
We suck at being adults.
Anyway, I flipped through the mail and there it was. My first “you are going to die” junk mail.
Me: Fucking hell. I got my first death junk mail. From Rest Haven Memorial Park.
Randy: It’s not the first one.
Randy: I throw them away.
Me: It’s depressing.
Randy: I got that junk mail back when I was in my thirties.
Me: It’s the end of the line junk mail. I mean, not just that it’s about dying, it’s actually the end of the line for junk mail. There is nowhere else junk mail can go with me. I have reached the end. They can’t sell me anything after I’m dead. I have hit the junk mail wall.
Randy: Well, you actually hit it a while ago, because like I said, I’ve been throwing them away.
Me: It just sucks getting this reminder. I mean, we are late bloomers.
Me: Like, super late bloomers. We’re just starting to bloom and we’re already getting our death notices.
Randy: You’re being slightly dramatic.
Me: Whatever, old man.
I watched, slightly horrified, as Randy tore the envelope open to read it. It was like he was about to read from the Handbook For The Recently Deceased from Beetlejuice.
I attempted an air of nonchalance that I wasn’t feeling. I thought “I don’t know about reading that, dude. Or really, even touching it.”
I couldn’t take it and went upstairs to escape into Netflix but I wanted to write this down, so I asked Randy to bring the junk mail upstairs so I wouldn’t forget. He handed it to me before going into his office and I shoved it behind my laptop.
I had to have a somewhat stern “it’s just fucking junk mail” discussion with myself.
I didn’t have my glasses on, so I couldn’t read the fine print. I do know that I can get a pre-planning kit request certificate. It’s written in very large letters. You know, so old people can see it. So I have that going for me.
I’m not saying preparing for the dirt nap is a bad idea. I mean, I assume that is what responsible adults do. I’m just saying, that junk mail made me feel older than my actual age or the widening gray streaks in my hair.
I don’t mind, though. I might be getting older, but this shit is fun y’all. I know that I’m broken and my anxiety has been killing me, but I still dig being me. I will continue doing the best I can every day and keep looking forward to the next thing that happens.
So, I got a reminder that we aren’t babies anymore, but that’s okay. It’s also a reminder that I love this part. The middle part.
My friend, Mountain Girl, explained that the middle part gets to last as long as we want. I’m going to hang here for a while.
For this week’s Dude, we’re out of order. Some of you read Dude daily on Facebook which means you’ll have seen these recently. For those of you who don’t, Randy’s been driving me crazy with the banana pen pineapple pen thing. He enlisted Dude for the same thing.