Recently I had "the talk" with my kids. I had put it off too long, which was truly irresponsible. Although my children are still relatively young, it's best to have certain discussions before they know everything and I'm just another embarrassing mom.
I knew the subject matter of our discussion would be uncomfortable. Some could argue that not drinking, not smoking or not having sex are far more pressing topics. But with three boys, I've got to pick my battles. My gravestone and final resting place are far more important than teenage pregnancy or drug addiction.
As single mom, I ponder what my final resting place will be like. Walking through the cemetery, I panicked to realize I might land in the bumpy last row of our family plot, next to old Augusta Bach. A distant cousin, Augusta was a pathetic case who had no husband. My great-grandma begrudgingly agreed to toss her in the back for eternity.
When I filed for divorce, I felt relief in being alone. In fact, my epitaph might have read: Beware of Dog. However, now that time has passed, I can't deny I fear being alone forever. I secretly yearn to have the words, "Beloved and super hot wife of...." engraved on my stone for all my posterity to see.
The fear of being alone causes me to have unusual reactions around happily
married folks. When I witness couples holding hands at the grocery store, I want to smack that happiness right off their faces. Permanently dressed in a black turtleneck and yoga pants, like a middle-aged ninja, although lacking any sort of stealth, I fantasize about nailing three perfect flips at warp speed down the baking ingredient aisle and karate-chopping their hands apart. Swish, swish, swish, hi-yahhhh!! In my fantasy, at the last minute a bag of flour drops off the shelf providing a smokey veil into which my cart and I would vanish.
As a result of hating the happily mairrieds, I don't want to be stuck next to those annoying, well-adjusted couples for the next 200 years. Therefore I took the boys to the cemetery for a simple "do and don't" session. Don't get me wrong, they don't need to go overboard. I don't need a "statement" grave.
I don't have issues about the size of a penis.
Nor do I have a Napoleon complex.
I don't need to pay homage to a lost testicle.
But after walking the cemetery, surrounded by so many unique symbols of love, I've decided not to give up on finding true love, the sequel. And in the event I do get that second shot, all of eternity will know. The boys have strict instructions to order a hot pink, grossly bedazzled gravestone which reads: "She's Goin' Down."