Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Karmic Retribution

It's all just a big old circle, perhaps.

I think in a former life I must have done something really mean to birds, because they don't seem to like me now.

I went to New York City after graduating from high school, and in one afternoon, I was the only person in our group of half a dozen or so to be crapped on by a pigeon. Correction: I was crapped on TWICE by pigeons.

I can't wash the car without a bird abruptly stymying my efforts at vehicular cleanliness.

I'm glad we don't have vultures in Minnesota.

Truth be told, I don't think karma is a real thing, but I do try my darndest to honor the "do unto others" principle as best I can. It's hard sometimes. Really hard. Especially during PMS week.

I figure that it may not always pay to be nice, but it will eventually cost you if you are an asshole. People will see it, and you will be regarded accordingly.

I once stood in a parking lot, eyeing a truck with a bumper sticker that read something like "Learn to speak English or leave!". The occupants of the truck were exiting, pulling items from the cab and exclaiming about how they didn't "have nothing to eat 'cuz nobody got no groceries last night."

I'm sure the irony was lost on them.

I pass a particular car on the freeway with a fair degree of frequency. It boasts one of those intelligently crafted male icon + female icon = marriage bumper stickers.
The vehicle is always driven by a man that is about as physically attractive as a full-face canker sore.

In my perfect karmic afterlife, the Grammar Gang would spend eternity in English Comp., writing and re-writing research papers on the global water supply.
Mr. Homophobe would invest his other-worldly days drawing nude portraits of same-sex lovers entwined in passionate embraces.

Everybody else? They get a lifetime supply of cookie dough ice cream and a slip-n-slide amusement park in their backyard.

That's the way it oughtta be.

Monday, June 15, 2009

The Fear of Death vs. the Fear of Dying Embarrassingly.

I will admit it. I'm maybe a little, eensy bit over-concerned about my physical self-maintenance. Yeah- that's basically a wordy way of evading the use of the term "vain".

The thought has crossed my mind more than once that while I may be wearing close-toed shoes, if I die and "they" have to put a tag on my toe, it would be really embarrassing if those corpse-toes were poorly manicured.

For real.

Death is a natural process. It's the end to all of our beginnings. It's inevitable.
Sometimes it's a long-awaited respite from suffering; other times it's a horrifically premature tragedy. While I'd rather not know how or when I'll die, I'd at least like to know that I won't die in a manner that makes people snort/chuckle and then slap their hand over their mouth.

I don't want to be remembered as The Woman Who Died Because She Fell Asleep on the Toilet, Tipped Over, and Hit Her Head on the Bathtub Spout (or something like that.)

I once suffered a concussion by passing out and hitting my head on a cash register.
I also suffered a concussion by hitting my head with a tree.
On more than one occasion, I have managed to slam my head in between a car door and the frame.

I cried the first time it happened. The second time I did it I just got very mad at myself.

I have fallen down every set of stairs in my house. That's five, including the outside ones. I've also fallen off the edge of my deck upon forgetting that there were no stairs there.

I either strained or sprained my left ankle by tripping over my big toe.
I had to have my foot X-rayed for broken bones after stabbing it with the end of a prop cane during a performance of "Appointment With Death" in high school. I would like to note that it was an excruciating blow, but I totally did not break character.

I'm pretty certain that I came perilously close to drowning when I tried to use a neti pot last week.

I was nearly strangled by an automatic seat belt in a Ford Tempo during a camping trip in junior high. For this reason, I no longer go camping.

I once lit the wrong end of a cigarette and took a huge drag off of it. It tasted like something that really should have killed me.

I've had moments in my life where things seemed unbearably bad.
I walked through days feeling as though my chest was a fist, clenched so tightly that one-more-bad-thing would cause it to crush itself and crumble.

In a place like that, it feels like you'll die. But you don't. You just to learn to laugh at everything you can, because it loosens the fist.

So maybe if I die from inhaling and choking on a green water balloon, it'll make people laugh when they're terribly sad. That might not be so awful.

If I do pass in such a manner, some distant day, please make certain that my obituary reads: "Lara died in her home. She had impeccably manicured toes."