I keep fantasizing about faking my own death.
After—how many months of lockdown? I’ve lost count—this seems almost reasonable. Surely I’m not alone in this sentiment. Were we ever truly meant to spend this much quality time with our loved ones? This much? All the time? With teenagers and a husband who works from home?
My husband is a daggone saint. I see it in his eyes sometimes. He’s looking at me, and he’s trying not to laugh and trying not to kill me, and it comes out in this frozen deerlike stance. I am the headlights. I am his demise. But he’s afraid to move because what if I’m attracted to motion, like a T-Rex, like a Headlight T-Rex that will paralyze him with my high beams then rip him to shreds?
I’m not a T-Rex. I have very long arms.
But seriously, if I faked my own death, where would I go? I’d change my name and disappear to a yurt on a mountain out west.
I hate nature. This is a bad plan.
I’d steal aboard a ship and sail to Europe and get lost in the Carpathian Mountains and commune with the spirit of Dracula.
This is a great plan.
But I hate logistics and faking my own death feels like a lot of logistics. Could I hire an assistant to handle the details of faking my own death? How much would I pay her? What’s the hourly rate on creating a new identity for someone who wants to start over? I could take out an ad on Craigslist, although then I’d be worried someone would show up and kill me for realsies, and I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of commitment. I’m looking for more of a pseudo death. Death lite, without any of the permanence.
