I’d be laughing too, if I hadn’t just wet myself.

April 10, 2009

On the agenda for today’s meeting of Planet Man: life insurance and crazy dance moves.

1) Life insurance

Alive, this is what I’m good for: making meals, washing dishes, doing laundry, vacuuming, hauling the rubbish to the curb, telling Viking Woman that, yes, of course, dear, you still possess the butt of a 17-year-old high school cheerleader.

Dead, this is what I’m good for: $200,000.

Which may explain why Viking Woman is prone to asking me how I’m feeling while reading over our mortgage contract with the bank. One false step in front of a moving bus and our house is paid for. Which may explain why I no longer let her hold my hand when we cross the street.

Because I tend to sign forms without reading them (it’s a Planet Man thing — what can I say), I really have no idea how life insurance works. I assume the basic concept is to ensure there is enough money available to pay for funeral expenses, followed by the surviving partner’s wild holiday on a beach somewhere while surrounded by suntanned models clad in tiny swimsuits.

Viking Woman and I have opted for cremation, something — as I’m constantly reminding her — I’d prefer to occur after I’m dead.

However, during our sojourn in the Cook Islands, we did entertain the thought of simply allowing our remains to be dragged into the backyard brush, there to be disposed of by assorted insect populations and the pig someone tied to a tree one night while we were sleeping. It was a perfect example of the no fuss, no muss attitude one tends to encounter in the tropics.

I have no idea what Viking Woman wants done with her ashes (again: Planet Man thing. Deal with it). As for my burnt offerings, I once entertained the fantasy of having them mixed with water in the bowels of a Zamboni and then spread across the ice surface at GM Place so NHL teams could skate on my face.

But then I remembered that, when they take the ice out, all that melted water is diverted into a storm sewer, meaning I’d spend eternity floating in a ditch somewhere while mosquitoes humped on my face.

I know — not a pretty picture. Which is why I’d rather think of . . .

2) Crazy dances.

Jenn was recently asked to put together a list of dance moves which could be used between stations at the gym where she and Viking Woman work out. I’m assuming the idea was that, at 26, Jenn would have a better repertoire of groovy moves than those of Viking Woman’s generation, who can do the Twist and, um, not much else.

Because my only purpose in life is to be tortured by women, I was often subjected to the sight of Jenn rehearsing her dances in our lounge. Which means I was forced to endure something called The Sprinkler. And the Shopping Cart. And other gyrations that so resembled convulsions that I was torn between admiration for her agility and dialing for the ambulance.

I know what you’re thinking: John, what does life insurance have to do with funky dances?

Picture this:

It’s night. I’m doing the dishes. The blinds are drawn on the window over the sink. I’m idly scrubbing away at the remains of our evening meal, brain in neutral.

When, suddenly, there comes a hammering on the outside of the glass.

In my version of this story, I drop the wash cloth and instantly assume a defensive position. It might have been the crane. Or maybe the turkey.

In Jenn’s version of the story, all she can hear from outside the window are screams and the sound of frantic movement.

In Viking Woman’s version of the story, I (allegedly) jump up and down several times while assuming the position of someone who has just lost control of their bladder.

The idea behind Jenn’s sneak attack was to have a bit of fun at my expense. To give me a bit of a fright. To provoke a bit of a laugh.

“But you could have killed me dead,” I protested. “I could have been flopping on the floor, gasping out my last breaths, turning blue and bleeding from every orifice.”

“What’s your point?” said Viking Woman, who, just for the record, does not possess the butt of a 17-year-old girl.

Yes, I guess the prank was all designed to add a bit of humor to what had been a dull night. Except I’m pretty sure I heard my adrenal gland pop a valve during all the excitement.

The good news is the ladies at the gym now have a new move to use between stations. It’s called the Heart Attack Dance.

Meeting adjourned.

Now pass the root beer.

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One Response to “I’d be laughing too, if I hadn’t just wet myself.”

  1. Megan said

    I laughed so hard that I almost peed my pants. I could picture this perfectly. Great story.

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