“When I cark it, I want my curtains to match the drapes.”
To say I was perplexed by my friend’s request is something of an understatement.
But she was adamant: even in death, she would not let any part of herself go. In her will, she has specified that when being prepared for burial, she wants everything (and I mean everything) spruced, landscaped, cut and coloured.
And that includes her pubic hair.
I’d asked an innocent enough question. Did she intend to age gracefully or – as will be the case with me – disgracefully. I had explained, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, that when I hit an “acceptable” age, I was going to go let my hair go grey.
To which she asked “What, even your pubes?”
To be honest, I didn’t have an answer. I hadn’t thought much past lunch, let alone determined the condition of my lady garden when I become a senior citizen.
But more power to her. If we don't specify our wishes, in writing, how will anyone know what to do when we shuffle off this mortal coil?
The problem with death is it's morbid and no one wants to imagine a world they aren't participating in. As someone who has organised a funeral, a wake and the disposal of another's worldly possessions, that has to change. It's incredibly overwhelming, especially when you've been left with little direction. Not only do you constantly second guess yourself, you are never quite sure if you are doing the wrong thing.
