I kind of love the idea of being able to run shit from the grave! Like if I want my alma mater to get money, I can make it so they’re getting paid only if they endow a chair in my name. (Of course, whether it’s a university honor or something with four legs, a back, a couple of arms, and my name on a plaque will depend on my industriousness going forward.) This is like a legal form of extortion!
As I cackle and rub my green-tipped hands together in delight under the table, it occurs to me that I shouldn’t be quite so gleeful.
I mean, this isn’t a hypothetical arrangement and for all my bravado, I actually am planning for my eventual demise. No matter how I spin it, I am going to die. I might not die soon (at least I hope) but I am going to die. No matter how many books I sell, no matter who loves me, no matter what color my nails are painted, it’s all going to end for me exactly like it has for every other person who walked this earth.
Suddenly everything feels very real.
Although I’ve considered my own mortality many times before, I’ve never contemplated it on this level, except for that hour last year when we talked about life insurance.
Rather, my fear of death has always favored the how-to-prevent-it-from-happenings, and never the what-happens-when-it-happens-because-make-no-mistake-it-will-happens.
But in putting together these documents, I’m forced to come to terms with the fact that I’m no different from a carton of milk. I have an expiration date and there’s no getting around it.
That’s when Fletch and I really begin to talk. Do we want our legacy to be making everyone we know arm wrestle for the spoils? Or do we want to take what we’ve earned to do the kind of good that we—to this point—have not quite accomplished on earth?
We’re opting for the latter.
Ever since I stopped volunteering, I’ve felt this sense of guilt that I wasn’t doing enough. In terms of doing charity work, I learned that I’m better at giving money than myself so I’ve been as generous as I can whenever I can. Yet the guilt remained.
After earmarking the bulk of our net worth to deserving nonprofit organizations, I feel an enormous sense of relief as we leave the law office. There’s an almost indescribable satisfaction that comes from knowing my life will not have been lived in vain.
No matter how silly or vapid or mean I’ve been at times, I’ll go out confident that my life will have made a difference and that fills me with a sense of peace and calm.
Despite my reticence, I’m glad we made these decisions. Although we still need to talk with those we’ve chosen as our second [Not Diana Ross, FYI.] I feel like we’ve leapt an enormous hurdle today and we’re coming to the end of our Reluctant Adult Decathlon.
We shake hands on our way out the door and we head to the car having made the decision to begin concentrating on what’s really important in our lives.
But before that happens, I’m probably going to get a fresh manicure.
Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:
Estate planning sucks. Do it anyway.
C·H·A·P·T·E·R T·W·E·N·T·Y-S·E·V·E·N
Distinguish Myself
“What does this mean?”
I read and reread the letter and I still can’t make sense of it, so I have to ask Fletch.
“Is this… something?” I wonder, handing the heavy sheet of paper across the counter to him.
According to what the letter says, I’m receiving a distinguished alumni award from the Liberal Arts department at my alma mater, but I’m not sure it’s legitimate because I… didn’t exactly have a distinguished college career. I mean, why would I receive this? What are they going to recognize me for, specifically?
Flunking out after my sophomore year?
Swimming in the fountain after every home football game?
Climbing up the fire escape of the old Education building to throw rooftop parties with my fraternity friends where the Dutchie may or may not have been passed to the left-hand side? [If I ever have to testify before Congress about this, I’ll claim the Bill Clinton defense.]
Spending more nights in a row warming a barstool at Harry’s than any other female student in university history?
Accumulating a record number of campus parking tickets because I refused to walk to class since getting sweaty would mess up my hair?
Taking eleven years to earn a bachelor’s degree and then graduating, finally, with a solid C average?
Seriously, if my college career was distinguished, I’d hate to see whose wasn’t distinguished. [To be fair, I probably dated him.]
I tell Fletch, “I remember getting one of these letters in high school, too—you know, those Who’s Who Among American High School Students awards they gave out for ‘outstanding students’?”
“Not familiar,” he replies, eyes scanning my letter.
I pause, remembering the volume I’d been so proud to receive until I realized that my information filled approximately one square inch in a five-hundred-page tome. I wave my hand dismissively. “Oh, everyone got them. The whole thing was kind of a scam. Some private company recognized students for their ‘outstanding achievements’ but if you ask me, the only thing really ‘outstanding’ about them is that their parents were willing to shell out forty-five dollars for a genuine leatherette-bound yearbook.”
“Yeah, never saw one. But, Jen, this? This is real.” He hands the paper back to me.
I flip the paper over to see if there’s any fine print on the back. “How are you so sure? Seems to be the kind of thing a college would send out to troll for a donation check. Ooh, or like when police departments send people notices saying, ‘Hey, you won a boat! C’mon down and claim it!’ but really, it’s just a way to bring in those with outstanding warrants? And even as those poor saps are slapped into cuffs and loaded into the police bus behind the decorated storefront, they’re all, ‘Do I still get my boat?’ Am I
