The Death Talk

So, at 26, I’m pretty much an adult.  I say pretty much because I definitely don’t feel like a real adult.  I’m still trying to figure out… well… everything.  I don’t have a husband or a house or a mortgage.  I do pay taxes and have health insurance and I know how to do laundry.  I just don’t feel like I’ve actually achieved full adulthood.  Maybe real adulthood is a myth, and you never quite feel like you’ve made it.

A few days ago, however, my parents decided I was grown-up enough to have The Death Talk with me.  Most kids know what The Sex Talk is (by the way, my parents never had that talk with me… they let my fancy private school teach me about the Birds and the Bees), but they never prepare you for The Death Talk.

It basically goes something like this: “We’re getting older and something might happen to us.  Just in case something tragic does happen, we want you to know who to call and what to do so you and your sister don’t have to worry.”

What the adult-kid in question hears though, is something like this: “We’re decrepit and could basically drop dead at any time.”

Needless to say, when they ambushed me with this horrific topic the other day, I was not expecting it at all.  It was so early in the morning and such a shock that I kind of dissolved into this pathetic blubbering mess, which my parents just found absolutely hilarious.  Excuse me, that is not the kind of thing you just spring on a person, especially a person with an already fragile mental state.  I’m a writer.  My mental state is like, just barely there.

I guess a small part of my parents would still like to believe that I am a totally normal human being who can deal with rational discussions about what will one day be inevitable, but sadly, that is just not the case.  Hopefully they have now learned their lesson and will think before they drop a bombshell like, “Oh hey, we might die” on their unsuspecting, unstable daughter.