we will still need a song

On Wednesday, I had what I think can only be described as a migraine. I woke up early to go to my first pilates class, and was assaulted about the head with stabbing pains. I took some extra-strength migraine relief Advil (aka the Good Stuff), and the pain actually subsided during my pilates class (possibly because I was uniting my mind and body), and then returned in time for my journey to work (during which I snapped at a Bagel Stop employee). My lunch shift was absolutely brutal. I begged off my on call evening shift, went home, and crawled into bed. I woke up about five hours later, convinced I was going to die. I dragged myself to the bathroom and kitchen to retrieve my bottle of Advil and some water, double-dosed myself, and then, while waiting for the sweet, sweet drugs to kick in, pictured my funeral.

Drama queens like myself can get pretty into the funeral planning business. I was calculating how long it would take for my body to be discovered, and trying to decide whether or not Mother would remember an offhand remark of mine stating my preference for cremation. Then I decided that Dad would put his foot down and go for straight up burial--it failed to occur to me last night, in the throes of my dramatics, that my body would probably be in no state for an open casket, having been decomposing quietly in my apartment for a few days--and then I tried to figure out what outfit they'd have me in for the funeral. Not having my arty sensibilities, I decided that Mother would choose the little black dress that I'd bought for a semi-formal back in high school, although I'd prefer the sixties-inspired dress with the three-quarter sleeves.

No fantasy funeral is complete without a guest list! Family would come, of course. And Jo, Toni and Linds (or I'd haunt 'em GOOD). And I'm sure one of my family members would have the bright idea to send out the word via Facebook or MSN of my untimely demise. I'm sure not everyone on my lists would show up, but some of them would. At least a few coworkers, past and present, might feel some obligation to mourn. And maybe a professor or two, if they found out in time. So I think I'd have a respectably attended funeral, despite my general lack of impact on the world and society.

Anyway, by the time I'd gotten around to picking out some appropriate music (and then gotten distracted by remembering my favourite scenes from Love, Actually), I was feeling improved enough to relocate to the couch, and then soon to go on a chocolate run. The long and the short of it is, I'm still alive, but you're all invited to my funeral, whenever it may be.