Ironman and I are at a stalemate. He wants to buy us plots. Because nothing says I love you more than neighboring headstones. You may think it’s sweet. You may be impressed even. I’ll admit, his ability to plan for the future surprised me, since most of the time I have to change the clothes over to the dryer when he’s started up a load in the washer. I’m kidding. It’s all of the time. Anyway, his land-buying venture went horribly awry when I informed him I don’t want to be buried. It seemed simple enough. But when I told him why, he didn’t believe me. I think the conversation went something like this:
Ironman: Why don’t you want to be buried?
Me: Because I’m claustrophobic.
Ironman: (laughing uncontrollably) Oh, you’re serious.
Me: Yes I’m serious!
Ironman: But you’re dead.
Me: I’m not dead yet! And it gives me anxiety to think about it. Because I’m claustrophobic.
Ironman: Well, then we can’t be buried together. And just so you know, if that’s the case, I’m free to roam.
Me: Oh no you’re not. Because my urn will be sitting on top of your coffin.
Legal disclaimer: On our wedding day, I argued to have “until death do us part” taken out of our vows since I didn’t believe death would actually
keep us from arguing part us. I didn’t win, but let the record show that when I repeated the vow I didn’t mean it. Checkmate.