A letter to my future corpse

Live fast, die young, leave behind a pretty corpse? Think again.

I think about you a lot, Dead Marga.

Not in a morbid way, you see. Imagine it like how little girls painstakingly memorize the details of their dream wedding. After being interred to the tune of my favorite song—currently a toss-up between The Beatles’ Something and Sugababes’ Push the Button—the front row mourners (a gaggle of Abercrombie male models) will attempt to join you in your humble plot, but will be stopped by the members of One Direction, who feel bad that they had to witness the whole thing from the second row.

You probably wouldn’t worry about people visiting your grave again. Everyone will want to hang out there for the specialty cocktails (called Bloody Marga for the lols and yums) and hi-speed WiFi (password: gonegirl). And maybe some folks will just want to see your tombstone, to remember that you still looked as hot as Scarlett Johansson’s housemaid even when rigor mortis set in.

Perhaps I am a bit too cavalier over something very serious. Death. Death is probably one of the gravest (literally) (sorry) aspects of humanity. It’s the most inevitable thing in the world. There’s nothing about death we can undo; we can simply try to delay it. Every step we take pushes us closer to an unfathomable end, like going to a party and not knowing if it’ll be full of kittens or the Ku Klux Klan. But we go anyway, even after we’ve ignored the Facebook invite.

I never thought of death as a tangible thing until recently. When my uncle passed after a long fight with cancer, I realized that I was looking at death through inverted binoculars—it was much closer to me than I thought. It was perhaps the most painful thing the family had to go through, and it was doubly hard to see a kind, beloved person leave behind the people who love him so much.

Whatever latent fears I had about mortality finally then reared their ugly heads. I was gripped with the realization that every breath I take can be my last. That I could get hacked into pieces on my way to work or that I might get trampled by a mob of Kathniel fans. That if the powers that be willed it, I wouldn’t even have the life in me to finish this sentence.

Suddenly the thought of hiring Vivienne Westwood to do my death gown didn’t seem so fun anymore.

But it wasn’t really death itself that frightened me. I imagine death as a peaceful existence, where everyone gets to wear cashmere and sip wine because it’s eternally nippy. I was afraid of living—or dying, if we’re to be technical about it.

Of course there is the most superficial of my worries: that I will not live a life that I can be proud of. I’ve made a lot of embarrassing (and sometimes downright bad) choices in the past, and I would hate to think that the end of my life would simply be a summation of have nots and should’ve beens. I wouldn’t want people to see the less hot version of me (that being you, my cold and lifeless body) and think, “Sure, she had an ass that wouldn’t quit, but did she win a Nobel Prize? YAWN. When are we going to Ariana Grande’s grave?”

I’m not even gonna stress out over being compared to a girl who seems to always be dressed for a quinceñera. You know what’s frightening? Aging. Sure, I want you to be the most gorgeous stiff in the cemetery, but I’m not worried about having to die at my most beautiful just to keep up with appearances. What I can’t stand is the thought of growing old, because it means I get to see the people I love grow old too. When my beautiful mother complains about the fine lines around her eyes or my feisty lolas complain about their aching joints, I say nothing but I am petrified.

I can’t help but think of the invisible ticking clocks over their heads, and how I don’t know when the alarm is scheduled to set off. They just will, and even if I try, there’s nothing I can do about it. Not really. So I can only shake my fists in frustration as the hair on my dad’s head gradually becomes grayer and my sister outgrows her favorite jigsaw puzzles.

It hurts to even just think of it, because even if I delude myself into thinking that science will find a way turn us into gods, I know that death will always stake its claim. Everything ends just as it begins. And if the Hindus are right, they can still begin again. And again. And again. So get it together, Shiva. I’m counting on you.

Knowing that I will never have my way on this matter, I’ve decided to focus on living instead of tormenting myself with thoughts of dying. It helps no one and only triggers my acne. So now I cherish weekend breakfasts in the kitchen just as much as I do a Friday night out with friends. I try to show people I care about that I’m thinking of them with a text or a tweet, even if it’s the middle of the day and everyone’s busy changing the world. In my own ways, I try to tell my loved ones that I do in fact love them, even when it’s painful. Even when they make it hard for me to do so.

As for living a life to the fullest, I can only hope to make the choices that help me grow up—not old—and be happy. I feel like any satisfaction out of life lies in being able to take every opinion aimed at you and knowing which ones to heed and which ones to ignore. So the next time I go for a run, I’m not gonna care that my playlist includes Nicki Minaj’s Anaconda and that I’d rather have a cute sports bra than burn calories.

That said, I’m sure you’re very nice, but I’d rather not meet you soon. I’ve still got places to go to, chicken nuggets to eat, and gorgeous, Armani-clad men to spurn. So if you and I can manage to be a little less dead for awhile longer, that’d be great. I’ll see you eventually. Just be patient.

Love,

Marga