Photo by Georgi Kyurpanov on Unsplash

If I Were Hit By a Bus

Sometime back in my kid years, the advice to ‘always wear clean underwear' since 'you might get hit by a car' or 'you might wind up in the hospital’, formed a foothold in my brain’s cortex.

I still make my bed because I might get hit by a car or somehow wind up in the hospital, an influence never completely replaced with the inclination for being tidy.

I catch a view of my toenail polish, it’s winter shade: disappearing color, and decide to reapply soon since sandal weather is coming. And wouldn’t my cadaver body appreciate cute toes?

In week two of my new job, I’ve got notepad pages full of hastily scribbled instructions. Watching, listening, scribbling…willing my mind to remember things — deciphering insane chicken scratch writing…

Why would I add consonants to form a totally irrelevant word? And what could that other word even mean? Where is my arrow really pointing? So many asterisks…too many asterisks. Could this ink blot possibly be more instruction?

A new job, no matter how many years of experience prior, has its own set of distinct challenges. Learning new to you systems and procedures can be less horrendous if the predecessor utilizes my ‘hit by the bus' approach to life.

During my last two jobs in particular, I made appropriate task lists and procedures. I think of these fondly, while attempting to extract the right information from my notes.

At home, I am the keeper of all things (including my husband’s missing things, apparently). I made a list, a map of sorts, of where the important items are, ‘just in case I get hit by a bus and someone needs to find something’.

Lists and maps aside, I’m not as prepared as I could be. I haven’t written a living will, or any hospital and funeral arrangements.


I prefer to become dusty bits.

That’s the exent of my planning, along with “spend as little money as possible". My kids know how I feel — but I could make it way easier on them if it was laid out neatly.

After work today I received the vaccine for Covid-19. Before leaving the office my co-worker waved, “see ya tomorrow — or in a few days, ha ha, ya never know how that shot’s gonna hit you!”.

Payroll for the week is complete, my undergarments match, and the notepad pages of dubious instruction will at least make decent kindling in case a fire is needed or desired. I’m prepared for this bus.

Disclosures for if I were to be hit by a bus:

I had planned to put away the folded clothes piles. I had planned to fold that other pile.

Yes, my house smells like bacon. No, there isn’t any left.

Its the effort to shave that counts.

Is it even really spring if the yard isn’t covered with dog feces?

Look, I know my house could be cleaner. But my bed is made.

While I understand the unfortunate circumstances of my passing, please understand that anything less dramatic would be in direct contrast to my life.

Welcome to my scavenger hunt! You’ve found this paper! (Good job!) Herein lies clues to my hidden wealth, intricately detailed in chicken scratch code.

Thanks for reading me. If I were hit by a bus, know that I appreciate your time and connection.

Yammering bits and some blathering. Humor is my first language, my second skin, and my hello.

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