You’re Never Too Old for a Miniskirt
I have a recurring dream about men, usually men in tuxedos, with miniskirts and hot buttered popcorn.
I never knew until a month ago and didn’t know when I woke up the next day that I fell asleep while dreaming. It could have happened the night before, and then again the night after. I’m not sure when it started. I don’t know how long it went on. I never wanted to share it with anyone, and now I’d rather keep it to myself.
Until last week, when I told my daughter that when I die I would want to know whether my funeral was planned as a celebration of, or because of, my appearance. I want to die as a proud man, wearing my own proud, miniskirted self.
I know how she’ll answer.
“You’d want to see you in a miniskirt for your funeral?”
“I’m not even going to ask.”
She’ll get out of bed in the morning and tell her mother. “Mom, mom, I told you she was going to die in a miniskirt. And I meant it, by the way.”
This has been her dream. We have been to funerals together, and once she saw her own funeral service on the screen in our hotel room. It was beautiful, and she was absolutely moved. I don’t remember ever being so moved by a funeral service. Maybe because it was my wife who was wearing a miniskirt in my funeral. After that, she got up early each morning and put my funeral outfit on while I woke up at 6 a.m. to help on the farm. It was almost nine years ago now, and she still sometimes does it on her own.
When the dream came on last night, I didn’t think about the funeral for a minute. I was in a store. I was buying a pair of pants for my wife, and she was wearing a short-sleeve shirt with a tie collar. She was looking beautiful