Every Day I’ll Be Ready For A Funeral

Every Day I’ll Be Ready For A Funeral

I was walking my dog last night and some people sitting out on their stoop called out to me “What kinda dog is that, he sure is handsome” and so we got to chatting.

The people were at a house across from me, having a wake. The woman who had lived in the house had died and she was very old, so there were a large bunch of relatives hanging out after the funeral. Drinking. Chatting. It appeared to be the kind of get-together you’d see post-funeral on TV or in a movie. Where people are drinking and seeming to enjoy one another, celebrating the life of the person who has died genuinely, catching up with each other, unlike every wake/funeral I’ve ever attended, where everyone was, in my opinion, WAY too sober and grim and sad.

Anyway. So we’re chatting, about my handsome dog, who gets bored and lays down on the driveway, and the next thing I know they are asking me my name and my husband’s name and what do I do for a job and where I am from and some of them live in my hometown so we discuss my high school and do you know so-and-so? and we chit-chat and they are holding beers and wine glasses and it’s all good and friendly. After a time, I say goodnight and go home and that’s it. And most people wouldn’t think about this at all.

Except for hermitty me. Who has been thinking, the entire time she is chatting, that these people have no idea how unlike me it is to sit here and chew the fat with strangers. How exhausted I’ll feel when it’s done. How my husband will be shocked and dismayed that I’ve not returned when I said I would, because I always return when I say I will. I’m predictable. I don’t get waylaid into random conversations with strangers. That’s him.

But the funeral people? They don’t know that, and from the way I am acting, there’s no way they could know it. I do a decent impression of someone who is comfortable socially. Maybe it’s the Zoloft? Or that I couldn’t stand to look like an idiot, so I ramp up my game? Maybe that’s why people exhaust me? Maybe if I just stood in the driveway with the funeral people and acted mousy and awkward, I would go home as fresh as a daisy?

I’m not sure where I was going with this.



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