I used to have Smurf underpants. I don’t know why or how, but I had one pair left of the bunch when I was far too old (probably six or seven) to have Smurf underpants. It was at that age that I had my first fear of dying unexpectedly, which is slightly too morbid of a thought for a child to have. Because if you die unexpectedly, everyone always see your underpants. Everyone. And nobody wants to be remembered by the terrible underpants they had on when they died because the laundry was a little bit behind schedule.
As an adult, I’m still afraid of that. So I’ve tried to make a deal with myself. Any underpants that would embarrass me from the grave are 1) never to be bought and 2) if they are bought, upon realizing their atrociousness, are to be immediately disposed of. Because it’s important to have people at your funeral say, “It’s such a tragedy that the most beautiful and intelligent woman in the entire world, since the beginning of time, had to come to such a heartbreaking and unexpected end. But it can be a comfort to all of us who knew her well to say that she had on some very flattering underpants.”
I’ve got to keep my ducks in a row, my priorities straight. And it all starts with avoiding the Smurfs from here on out.