Caterwauling

There’s an offline discussion arising around the book “One Month to Live.” My copy hasn’t arrived yet, but the question arose today as to how I would spend my days differently if I only had 30 of ’em left.

You know, people always pontificate that they would travel. That seems to be the going theory — that they’d finally hop on a plane and see where they came from or go plant their butts on a beach till the end drew near.

I was thinking about my meager savings and wondered, “Wow, other than gas money to go *somewhere,* what else could I possibly afford? And wouldn’t the ‘right thing’ be to leave it all to my mom, anyway?”

A friend joked that we could always open up as many credit card accounts as possible. Of course, you have crap-credit me here, so I wouldn’t get much and of course I’d need about 40 cards to get to France. Hell, one card might get me to Manhattan, the next might get me to the Atlantic Ocean, another card might get me about 50 yards into the water. Oh well — at least I wouldn’t be around to have to pay them all back!

In seriousness, though, I wrote down what I would do if I were told, “All right, on April 30, you go *poof*.” Not astoundingly, this was it:

“I would either quit my job outright or hang in there till the next pay period ends BUT I’d work ‘normal’ hours. I’d stop resenting everything I believe to be unfair in every aspect of my world. I’d do a pre-need package with the closest funeral director and spend the rest of my savings on one last — er, first bona fide — vacation.

“Before I board that plane, though, I’d need to find time to write just a few more pages of that novel and to will my writings to the right person who will take care of my ideas for me.”

That’s some deep stuff or, at least, some deep shit anyway. When did I get so responsible as to ensure no one had to worry about paying my final tab? Why do I care so much about the writings that I’ve damn near outright abandoned? And who the hell would I designate to carry on the contents of my heart and mind — who do I trust that much?

And funny, too, how I just want to work one 40-hour week. 😉 LOL. If THAT’S all it would take for me to die happy. … 😉

But seriously, I keep talking about getting a passport. What if I did, in fact, go *poof* in a month? I wouldn’t be able to leave the country. (Although I’d be glad to go find something tropical that’s considered to be on U.S. soil. Puerto Rico doesn’t require a passport, right?)

I think the purpose of the exercise was to get us to think more existentially — to see whether we’d be prepared to go into that gentle good night because we know we’re going somewhere good, or whether we’d be scrambling to make everything right that we know is wrong.

I think it was also to kick us in the pants to forgive someone or apologize to someone else. Hey, I’ve forgiven everyone who needed it, even if I didn’t want to open the door to let them back into my life. I forgive in my heart. No need to actually say it out loud. Likewise, I may owe an apology or two. But I’m also not nuts enough to stalk people who don’t want to talk to me.

To everything, there is a season, and if the leaves were all doused with gasoline, there’s nothing to go back to. There’s a reason why some people make it into the next chapter of your life story and others need to be hit over the head with the hardcover version.

But yeah, I really don’t know what I’d do with a month left to live. The material things come to mind — book a cruise, eat at all my favorite restaurants, finally make time for my friends, drink expensive wine (i.e., uncork the good bottles I’ve been saving for a special occasion that I have yet to deign), etcetera.

I can joke that I would put my cat to sleep so I can meet her on the other side, but give me a few years without cleaning up her poop landmines, mmkay? But what I would definitely do is come up with the endings of my half- or unwritten books and tell the lucky beneficiary to write those stories or at least find a good writer/editor to make them happen.

I might also joke that I want to administer one good old-fashioned ass-kicking. Because I can, you know? What, you’re going to deny a dying woman’s God-given right to bitchslap those who deserve it so? Line ’em up!

What I don’t want is to spend that time sad or depressed. I earned every gray hair on this head, every laugh line around my eyes, every eyeroll at examples of immaturity, laziness, pettiness and whininess.

I was at a little gathering at my church, and someone got to talking about how differently it is when a Christ-follower is about to pass, compared to a non-religious person. She said how beautiful it is, to see the “saved” person ready to go be with his or her King. I hope to cultivate that kind of faith — I’m afraid, right now, I’d be more than just a little resentful on all that I was missing out on.

And to that end, I’d want one last kiss — a good one (sad how you have to qualify that). But not with that (theoretical) one eye open — a bona fide, eyes closed, heart racing, churning-lava-at-your-absolute-core, goose-bumps-inducing, life-altering, mood-ring-changing as body heat rises, moment of utter and complete surrender.

That last “first” kiss would serve as a reminder for when I’m up for reincarnation in one of these millennia — that I’d actually want to come back again just to be able to experience the warmth of someone else’s skin.

Maybe the best things in life are free, when you look at it that way. 😉

Anyway, I will no doubt have more existential angst over this subject when I get the book in-hand. But what I expect from myself and others in my circle who are in this little book club, is that we’ll probably all be changed for life by this exercise.

If there were an Internet connection here at La Madeline, this would be a blog entry. But as there isn’t, oh well. (Hello, free Wi-Fi/ Since a girl had to disconnect hers at home per Comcast and now it won’t hook back up because there’s no love for Mac people in a Windows-based router world?)

I’ve been having trouble with the morons at my apartment rental office. I mean, I want to light the office on fire and probably would if it wouldn’t get me arrested. And that just wouldn’t agree with me too much — I think the reason why I stay as calm and serene as possible is that I just wouldn’t be able to survive in prison without all my girly products.

And besides, what’s the point of losing one’s cool if her single-lifetime meltdown moment ends up on the nightly news? I would surely hate to wait all this time for my 15 minutes of fame and it would find me doused in gasoline and touting a .38-caliber. (Although, the peaceful, accomplished grin on my face would be epic)

Anyway, the rental office somehow managed to hire someone competent and, dare I say, the only non-native English-speaker is the most-articulate of the bunch. (Shocker!) In fact, we talked for a good two hours about his travels. (Born in Mozambique, lived in many places, last seen in Santa Monica, planning a two-month journey to South Africa, Barcelona and Paris, etc.)

I was mystified as to how a management-office money could afford that, but he said he only works when he feels like it — just one or two days a week. He’s got all kinds of enterprises going and says that one good commission can pay for him to live/travel for a year. Damn.

I needed to run into him when I did. I wanted to hear all about a world other than workweeks and familial obligations and no time for oneself. I mean, this dude looked like the corners of his mouth were permanently upturned — he’s one of those people who “works to live’ (and not the other way around like the rest of us). And damn it, I want to be him when I grow up.

He says he’s quitting this job in May to start his travels, and he’ll come back when it darn well pleases him — not to the job, but to America. I was enthralled with tales of the friends he’s made around the world, and how there are so many more journeys to be experienced that one simply cannot know about when one is imprisoned in one’s circumstances.

Blah blah, if you can dream it do it cakes.

He asked what I was doing this afternoon, and I said I was inspired to go find some travel literature and get my passport. He said to get that passport ASAP and to go buy maps and books and rent movies on France. (I told him about naming my savings account “Paris.”) So I found myself driving to Le Madeline for some cawfee (er, café) and some stinky-cheese dish. (The latter wasn’t such a hot idea, but le café est magnifique.)

We exchanged e-mail addresses with a promise to meet for cocktails before he leaves and for him to keep me motivated to keep my travel/escape dreams alive.

Hmm, that’s ponderous, what I just typed. I dream of escape these days, not travel. I’ve sort of fallen into a “can’t make it happen now — best not to dream about it at this time” mode. I think that sentiment could apply on a grander scale, too, truth be told. I can do it all “someday,” right?

He told me to not only get that passport, but frame that thing and stick it in the living room. To remember that every day that goes by without me using it is time that I am missing out on experiences that I’m destined to have.

I always, always say that people are placed in our path for a reason. I admit I thought he was put on this earth to annoy me (as it seems damn near everyone else was) because he works for Miss Management (oh, I hate the woman who runs that office). But he could care less about the dumb games they or anyone plays, because he has his own thing goin’ on.

In fact, he’s going to be doing volunteer work in every city he’s traveling to. He set his own agenda and seems like he shows up and introduces himself to helping organizations and gets put to work wherever. And he picks his hotels and destinations based on how much of his tourism dollars will go to the poorest people in those cities.

I would never have thought to do that. Of course, I’m not doing a lot in the way of crafting creative solutions to anything because I’m having enough of a challenge just keeping up with the bare minimum that I’ve committed myself to.

Anywhoo, I’m going to go find myself a bookstore or something. I don’t want to lose out on this rare inspired feeling — lord only knows, if I don’t hang on to it this time, when I’ll come across it again. …