Live Hard & Like It

I know I've mentioned here before that two days before the accident, Rbf told me that if my life ended, he'd take his own. Simple and matter of fact. According to him, he would never recover, and if he didn't die, he'd just be alone forever. (Kir: "OK drama queen.")

But this wasn't really something he was saying out of the romantic's flair for the dramatic. I think we can all agree he's not That Guy and never was.

He was saying it that night because we both understood that he didn't have many regrets. He had lived, much more vividly and robustly than I had. No offense to me or anything. He'd just kind of done it all. Not only did this make me jealous at times, but I felt like he was disappointed I hadn't carpe'd the diem a little more. But whatever, my point is this: It almost seemed like his way of expressing his satisfaction with the story he'd be leaving behind, if it were to end at that moment.

I'm afraid that in my final hours, I won't feel that way. I'll have a piece of crap to-do-in-life list that I didn't cross anything off of (cuz I was always blogging). I'm scared to death that I wouldn't be able to feel the things in my final hours that he felt in his own. And I don't want to be jealous of that. 

I want it to be true that when he passed on, I took on some of who he was, and became it. On my vanity bench are jewelry stands (thanks, Auts) and perfume and token boxes. And then his riding gloves and sunglasses. I wear his boxer-brief style work underwear, as shorts under my skirts on cold days. He just kind of left that stuff with me. And I really use them. Why not have his old virtues, too? Why not take over his old work ethic? Why not inherit his wanderlust? Suddenly, I am equipped with his aversion to gossip (not entirely, but wow did it seem to install itself in me after he left).

My positive attitude since the passing of the Mingos, is a function of

a.) suspecting that he's watching

b.) wanting to maintain, if not intensify, his posthumous affections

c.) my drive to ensure that my life ends on the same peaceful, satisfied note his did. 

I do have those days where I can't find the off-switch. They're days when that over-regulated, compartmentalized sadness is permitted to run wild and get its wiggles out. It knows that it needs to wrap it up by 9 p.m. on weeknights. And when it comes out, it bulldozes me - as it should. But the truth is that I choose every morning to make him proud. Most of what I do is a tribute, to him and the things he deeply wanted for me. When people think I'm handling "it" well, they're probably right. It's his fault. It's his example. I am entitled to a little self-pity and occasional rage blackouts. But he made sure to have fun every chance he got. That's what he's leaving to me. I want to live like he did, and that doesn't leave a lot of room for dysfunction or failure. He always ended his emails in "Smile." He always did. Why not me?

(Here's the video I put up last night that Microsoft's basic software used to try and RUIN my life. I got it mostly tweaked. Suck on that, Windows Vista!!! Keep in mind, I threw this together with scraps I browsed through on his hard drive last night. So it's not exactly documentary quality. But here's a two minute reason to smile, so do it.)