I know it’s probably a bit weird to think about your own funeral. In my case, this is doubly so given that I haven’t yet quite accepted the fact that I’m not going to live forever, a la AbFab (“Eddy, you remember how you said you were going to die?” “I might not be now. I’m looking into it.”)

On the other hand, I find it hard to attend someone else’s funeral and not think about whether or not this is the kind of service that I’d want for myself. BJ’s funeral was Saturday, and as religious services go, it was quite nice. I particularly enjoyed that the closing hymn was “We Shall Overcome,” since it sort of encompassed her life’s work quite nicely.

I started blabbing about this the other night in a drunken stupor, and Ray told me I was being morbid, and maybe I am, but it’s a good blog topic. (Especially for Christmastime!) After all, who didn’t have the discussion with their partner or spouse or loved ones during the whole Terry Schiavo affair? For the record: don’t keep me plugged in. And I certainly hope that everyone knows me well enough to know that bringing Jesus into the conversation would just piss me off.

I also made the decision that I want to be cremated after going to a viewing for the husband of a longtime coworker of mine. I’d never met him in life, but I walked into the viewing area, looked in the coffin and thought–God help me–This is the most unnatural thing I’ve ever seen in my life. He looks like a giant block of tofu. I don’t want them to do this to me.

After the service for BJ on Saturday, some of us were reflecting that the nicest moments were when people were telling stories about her. I like that aspect, and I’ve long suspected that I don’t really want a funeral at all. I want a cocktail party.

I don’t believe that, if there is an afterlife, you can’t get in until certain magic rituals and prayers have been said over your body. I just can’t buy that it works that way. Especially for someone like BJ. I do not see her putting up with the celestial passport control officer informing her that, “I’m sorry ma’am, but your visa hasn’t been approved yet. They haven’t said mass for you. Have a seat in the transit lounge. There’s coffee and TVs, but they’re all tuned to the CNN Airport Network.”

I’d much rather that the urn with my ashes be placed next to photos of me (which I will have to personally approve first, naturally), and people have a good time. Tell stories. Does someone really need to recite selected readings from the Bible? Sure. But I’ll pick the passages. And just to keep everyone on their toes, I may toss in a couple from the Qur’an, the Baghavad Gita, and Tales from the City, too. After all, if the passage speaks to one, why not? Isn’t that what’s important? I’d be much happier thinking that people will remember me with fondness and think to themselves, “I kinda want this when I go.” I’d be horrified to think that people will gather, be forced to sit in hard wooden pews, and spend the entire time looking at watches and wondering if there will be booze at the reception afterward.

So there you have it. Like I said, maybe it’s morbid to think about this stuff (Ray did seem a bit horrified), but life is short, and we all know that this is one of those things that no one likes talking about, especially me.

The next post will be all about something completely trivial, I promise!

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