There are two schools of thought on the “hour to live” issue, the Hedonist and the Romantic. The romantic would spend that time with their loved ones, the Hedonist in a short sudden orgy of excess.
I once dated a guy whom I’d hoped and suspected was the romantic type and asked him what he’d do if the clock was ticking in the vague hope he would say something along the lines of,
“I’d rush to your side to take one last look into your beautiful eyes, and though I respect your intellect and razor-sharp wit, I’d really love to cop a feel of your frankly magnificent breasts, if that’s ok with you?”
But instead he said, “I’d spend time with the people I like most”, in a suspiciously non-committal way.
Still clinging on for at least a mention I pushed, “But what if you’re more than an hour’s travel away?”
He tossed back “Then it looks like I’d spend the last 60 minutes of my life on a train on the way there masturbating furiously out of sheer frustration.”
Romantic – 0, Hedonist – 1
I’d fall into the Romantic category. I’d want to spend those last moments with those I’d already chosen to spend my life with. That said, I’d like to go with a clear conscience. It’s not as if I leave a huge trail of deceit behind me ( I’ve actually tried it, but I lack the necessary memory to keep track of the lies, and I have very poor fibbing skills) but there are things that I would like to say before my tearful , and slightly panicked I suspect, demise. That’s assuming, of course, that it’s just me going. If it’s the entire planet that’s due to be pushing up the proverbial daisies last-second confessions are pretty much pointless and you might as well skip to the sex and tequila.
This is where Topic 2 comes in, because I think I would need to ‘fess-up to an offshoot of this little-known fact :
“I never truly loved my husband, not even on the day I married him”.
It’s kinda sad really, more so when you find out that I was aware that he didn’t love me either, and that when we used to joke with friends that we only got married for tax reasons it was to hide the fact that we really did only get married for tax reasons.
When it all came to a crashing end I was relieved. I could stop smiling and making “Oh, these sprouts are delicious!” pleasantries with my Mother-In-Law about her Sunday roasts that had the consistency of charcoal-broiled snot. I no longer had to pretend that excessive sweating and poor personal hygiene didn’t make me gag just a little bit. And no, he wasn’t funny, and yes, I had noticed.
My deathbed secret is this:
“When I found out about his affair I didn’t actually care.”
Sure, I cried a bit, but mostly I was just monumentally pissed off that he’d been dipping his noodle for months and ALL our friends knew and they all covered for him.
So, I admit it, I milked it for the sympathy. Yeah, I genuinely felt crappy, just not for the reason that everyone thinks I did. Serves me right for marrying him, though I suspect I probably wouldn’t have fared any better with Mr Intercity Impromptu Hand Job or any of the other staggeringly bad relationship choices I’ve made in the past.
Luckily I’ve now found that Holy Grail of Couples… The Good Man. And I make sure I’m wearing my best undies and he’s never more than 10 minutes travel away, just in case.