When I’m 47 (64)
“A Place For My Stuff”
The Last Will and Testament of TheLegacy
So here I am turning 47 I believe which in most circles would cause a tremendous choir of “ooohs” and “wows” as for years many have always pegged me at looking 10 maybe 20 years younger than my actual being. I would stand beside my beautiful wife of 22 and relish that we did not look mismatched and strained such as Anna Nicole Smith and J. Howard Marshall – mind you the “tycoon” part in my name would have eased any pain and bring solace that all the finger pointing gave. My hope is that when I turn 64 that I look like my age now 47. Yet don’t we all?
The thing about being young, or at the very least, looking young, is that you honestly think you'll live forever. And the thing about not being young is that it finally dawns on you that you won't. I stare into the bathroom mirror as my fingertip traces a fine line under my eye that I swear wasn't there yesterday, and just as sure as I know I was born, I now know that one of these days I'm going to die. Hopefully with as little drool as possible. This past few months we have even spent time working out ‘wills’ with little success and buying a burial plot just so that I can feel ‘safe’ that when I go – no one will ever need to guess what I want or fight as to who get’s what – the alternative is having my wife decide for me – then I’ll know a family BBQ and ashes spread over her garden will be in order since apparently I can make great fertile soil.
It saddens me that unlike Paris Hilton, I do not have a yappy little Chihuahua (Tinkerbell) to whom I can bequeath my vast fortune. It further saddens me that unlike Paris Hilton, I do not have a vast fortune. Still, I've got stuff ... not good stuff, not giant-108inch-flat-screen-TV with surround sound, fabulous-tie-collection, secret-family-recipe, antique-emerald-tie clip stuff, but stuff just the same. So without further ado, here is my last will and testament, or as I like to call it: a place for my stuff.
I know there are many who choose to donate their bodies (from just bits to naught bits) to science, and may I just say what a noble choice that is. But I have yet to forgive science for forcing me to dissect a frog in 7th grade or learn the periodic table which to this date only seemed required knowledge for game shows - like I didn't have enough to deal with as a preteen geek in Kitchener Ontario --so in the unlikely event that she doesn't already have it at the time of my passing, I want to donate my body to Ms Angelina Jolie, because, let's face it, if she can't bring me back to life, nothing can.
I think my long-suffering wife, SheDevil, would agree that I became a much better husband right around the time she repeatedly began asking if I'd seen "Monster". (I digress) But as I look over my first child Mackenzie’s full diaper changing ever morning – noon - night of the average 4,182 stinky diapers to date, I realize it'll take more than a Pampers gift certificate at Christmas and Cheerio’s to secure a permanent place in her heart.
So, Mackenzie, I offer you all the office supplies you feel you need to get your hands on every morning (including but not limited to stapler, tape dispenser, Post-it notes, computer mouse, coffee coaster, telephone) you can get your hands on before somebody points out that they belong to your mom.
I remind my dearest wife and friend, of our Feb 08 Winter Blizzard pact when we were stuck in the house not able to drive out: If ever I end up in some kind of irreversible coma, I fully expect you to come by every few weeks and pluck any unsightly facial hair that might spring up. I'll be surrounded by cute nurses, so for God's sake, throw a little cologne on me, and by all means, help yourself to my Pink Floyd, Styx, Elton John and Partridge Family albums.
I would like to leave SheDevil Warren (the mother of my children, the light of my life, the low-fat vanilla yogurt of my blueberry parfait) the freedom to remarry after I'm gone. I'd like to do that, but technically, my darling, the Geneva Convention of 1949 won’t allow it. A minor detail really that even the other German’s couldn’t avoid. But you go right ahead and let him buy that ring, rent that tuxedo, and introduce your new guy to your brand new in-laws. I have but one request: Do not under any circumstance have sex with this man. Or if you must, let it be with the understanding that I will poltergeist you to a degree that makes "The Amityville Horror" look like "The Sound of Music."
Last but never ever least, I leave my lovely and amazing daughter, Mackenzie Warren, and the most beautiful new baby on earth due in June of this year, (whatever your new name is), the comfort of shared experience and unwavering friendship, because honestly, that's just about the only defense against the world's darkness that I know of.
So, Mackenzie, you get the new baby “whatever their name is”, and – “whatever your name is”, you get Mackenzie, and as long as I'm on a giving streak, you guys both get one of my favorite quotes and consider taking Christopher Robin's word for it just the way that Pooh did: "You must remember this: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think."
And, if you'll permit me one final piece of advice: See if there's any way you can make friends with Paris Hilton’s Chihuahua (Tinkerbell)
Finally:
Here now is a tune that I submit to my wife SheDevil as a living will - hoping that if she agrees - that the remainder of you who respond and post will now be legally responsible to ensure that not only does she fulfill it but also can under court order – be subpoenaed to testify that these were my final wishes.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mJ8kMbMpQbo
When I'm Sixty Four (64)
~ The Beatles
When I get older losing my hair,
Many years from now.
Will you still be sending me a valentine
Birthday greetings bottle of wine.
If I'd been out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door,
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four.
You'll be older too,
And if you say the word,
I could stay with you.
I could be handy, mending a fuse
When your lights have gone.
You can knit a sweater by the fireside
Sunday mornings go for a ride.
Doing the garden, digging the weeds,
Who could ask for more.
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four.
Every summer we can rent a cottage,
In the Isle of Wight, if it's not too dear
We shall scrimp and save
Grandchildren on your knee
Vera, Chuck & Dave
Send me a postcard, drop me a line,
Stating point of view
Indicate precisely what you mean to say
Yours sincerely, wasting away
Give me your answer, fill in a form
Mine for evermore
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four.
Happy Birthday to The Legacy
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