When I Lay Dying...

I haven't decided yet. I'm supposed to blog about cremation vs. burial. Do I come up with uplifting topics or what?! I guess now that I'm on the other side of 40 I should start weighing these options a little more heavily. I do this believing that they are the only options for my "remains" (I put "remains" in "quotes" because they are hypothetical and when spoken, the word is also "accented" with the right and left-handed two-fingered "air quote" gesture.) I know I could come up with better ways to dispose of me than a coffin or a match, but it just isn't practical. Why bother others with it? I mean who would want to hear after my passing that I want to be shot into space? Or strapped to a jetski and released into the waves toward Hawaii? I have no plans to go to Hawaii while living, but hey, once I'm dead I might even take that flight. Forget the jetski, put me in 14B next to a crying baby. What do I care? Make me hold the baby. I won't know the difference. What if I wanted to be frozen? But not in a lab, more like somewhere in Alaska. Put me on ice, right along one of those cruise lines so at certain times of the year, I can be seen with binoculars. Embed me in a sort of clear ice chamber, if you will, so I can see out and you can see in. Go ahead, have a whole conversation right in front of me about how bazaar it is. I don't care. I can't hear you. It seems so defeatist to choose immediately between ashes and soil. Can't I be seen just a little while longer even if I can't see back? Cremation seems the more practical choice. I am no nonsense. I don't want to be a burden. Reduce me to fluff and seal me in a small pot. The pot can be decorative. I can sit on a mantle for a while. I can remind others of the good times. Until the pot is deemed worth something. Then I am accidentally sold in a yard sale by the neighbor's kid. This is all because rather than honor my wishes of having my ashes spread atop Mount Washington (they must be hiked up, not driven...I can be a bit of an ass), everyone decided to keep me around a little longer. Now who knows where I'll end up. So maybe going six feet under is better. Put me in a box. Say your good-byes. Bury me and mark the spot with a rock. You can always come back and say hi. I'm not going anywhere. The thought of that makes me sweat a little. I commiserate with people who say they don't want to be buried because they are claustrophobic, but at the same time, I like to believe when dead I won't notice. I am annoyed to no end by people who refuse burial because they fear becoming "worm food." So annoyed I have once again employed the use of air quotes. Truth is, some of those coffins look pretty cozy. I see all that satin-y lining. Soft pillows. A nap with the lid open can't be that bad. It's when they close the lid I panic. Kind of like how I panic at the thought of being conveyor belted into the oven. This is what makes the decision so hard. I don't really know what will happen when my cold feet hit the flames or when the lid closes on my quiet frame. I think the point is to never know. Not that I won't ever die, but that being dead means you are not aware. Everyone else is, but not you. Given that, I should take a poll. What's easiest? Ashes or a me-sized box? Would you rather have me on your mantle (rotate among family and friends seasonally) or in the ground (you come to me, at your convenience)? I'm always impressed by others who know without question they want to be cremated. Equally so by those who unwaveringly say "I want to be buried." The gift of compromise is my burden...I suppose I wouldn't mind being buried so much if I were just a pile of ash. Dig a small hole in the backyard and put what's left of me in it. So, to the flames first! And then to the earth to think about what I've done.