Photo by: Mike Baird, CC Licensed
For years I’ve been watching those Heritage ads, the ones that urge you to buy insurance to pay for your “final expenses,” so your family doesn’t get left holding the urn. They begin, “If you were born between 1899 and 1950, you are eligible…” or some such.
Tonight I was, as usual, listening to Chris Matthews interrupt his female guests, when the commercial comes on. “If you were born between the years 1925 and 1968, you are eligible…” 1968? Wait a sec…I was born in 1967! The screen then goes blue and flashes the years of eligibility in large, distinct white letters. Because if you are between the ages of 40 and 85, you probably CAN’T HEAR THE DAMN BOX as my Grandpa Sam used to holler at the screen. And your eyesight is no doubt headed south, along with your boobs.
Freakin’ vultures! WTF?? Naturally, I dismissed being included in the ad’s target demographic as classic sales strategy: The younger they hook you, the more money they make.
Still, it pisses me off. Along with all the responsibilities women in their 30s and 40s shoulder, with all the stress I have, I’m supposed to worry—right now—about helping my kids pay for the disposal of my corporal remains? They’re 5; I can’t rely on them to dispose of their grilled cheese crusts in the kitchen garbage.
I have a will; anyone with children should. But to so specifically plan for your own interment? Maybe, maybe when I’m 60. Life expectancy in this country is 78. Odds are you’ve got a good 18 years to weigh the benefits of creamation versus having your head cryogenically frozen. Sorry, not at 40. I resent that anyone thinks people my age consider their longevity that tenuous.
At 40, women are spending their extra money (if they have any after their daughters’ passion for American Girl dolls has been satisfied) on liposuction, infertility treatments, and Spanx. Men are dropping their wads on flashy two-seater cars, $4000 prostitutes and Wii Fits. Many people my age have yet to start saving for retirement, let alone decide between mahogany or plain old plywood.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve got a lot of living to do. And if, God forbid, I get hit by a bus on the way to Yogilates tomorrow, I hereby give my husband and daughters permission to stick me in a shoebox and drop me down the garbage shute, like we did with the mouse we caught in the kitchen. I fully support their spending their money on pink sparkly shoes for their American Girl dolls and $4000 prostitutes, just as they did when I was alive.
October 2, 2008 at 9:03 am
I was in a drug store a few weeks ago, and this woman (who, incidentally, didn’t look much younger than I feel), was standing by a table handing out samples. I asked her what she had, and she explained to me that “men like you over forty need to take care of their prostates…” I thanked her for ruining my day: it was the first time anybody had assumed I was over forty, or at least the first time anybody had told me to my face.
Man.
In contrast, it was a great relief the other day when I was waiting for a bus, and this mentally ill woman comes up to me and tells me how we both look much younger than we actually are. In her ratty clothing, wild hair, and dirty, weathered face, she looked 60 to me, but she explained to me that she’s 47 but looks 37. But hey, she said I looked like I was in my thirties too. So she’s my new best friend.
I don’t really think of myself as aging. But then again, when both you and your wife have had cancer (I had testicular cancer 9 years ago; Denise is being treated for breast cancer now); you can’t be totally young and innocent. Mortality is out there, somewhere. But yeah, they don’t have to include us in the commercials.
As for burial, what you say makes perfect sense to me. Denise too should save her money for $4,000 prostitutes. A (reused material) cardboard coffin is fine. I have specified an epitaph, though, which would make the garbage chute approach awkward, if we had one:
Here lies dear old Joel.
He kicked the bucket, so we dug a hole.
November 1, 2008 at 9:22 pm
This is what gets me about these companies; don’t they understand that for every, say, 2 of us 40 yr olds who begin to worry and actually consider buying some sort of plan to spare our children the expense of getting rid of us, there are 20 of us who will get so pissed at having ben included in this ‘death demographic’ that if we ever decide to purchase such ‘insurance’ it will not be from THEM MOXXXFUXXER!!
Its like those telemarketers who call at 8AM on Saturday morning! I once was experiencing the unusual and never recurring miracle of my children sleeping passed 7AM when the phone rang and, startled, I lunged at it assuming one of my close family members must surely have exploded for someone to be calling me at 8AM on a Saturday.
On the other end of the phone was perky voiced gentleman selling something, what I don’t actually know because I interrupted him mid pitch and I said, ever so politely “I know you just work there and I am sure this is not your dream job so please don’t take this personally” I always feel very badly for telemarketers “but I am wondering how the decision was arrived at, to call a person at 8 o’clock in the FXXXING MORNING ON A SATURDAY UNLESS IT IS TO TELL THEM THAT THEY WON THE FXXXING LOTTERY!?! Can you explain that to me?!? What could you possibly be selling that I would EVEN CONSIDER>>>” this is when my husband leans over and hangs up the phone for me. Obviously he feels sorrier for telemarketers than I do.
But yes Stephanie, I agree with you.
I would actually like to be cremated, so anyone out there who would like to extend to my children the use of their fireplace, I would be forever in your debt.
December 13, 2008 at 6:20 pm
Most women in Hollywood wear spanx for special occasions. They cover all sorts of bulges from panty seams, bra seams, etc. Not a big deal, IMO. I also used to know a young guy that was friends with the Cyrus family…it seems like once you