Death Wears a Clown Suit

This weekend Ryan and I had to travel to Pocatello to attend an engagement party, which necessitated staying at a Rodeway Inn. It made the hotel where we stayed in St. George seem nice. I won't go on and on about it, but I made Ryan drape a towel over the back of the chair before he sat there due to a very suspect stain.

So, last night I was taking a shower in this crummy motel room, and had the shower curtain slightly open so that Ryan and I could carry on a conversation while he brushed his teeth. When I turned off the shower I noticed there was a large amount of water on the floor, which brought to mind how horrible it would be to step out of the shower, slip, hit my head, and die on the bathroom floor of the Rodeway Inn. Now, many of you may be asking ourselves "why would water on the floor of a bathroom of a Rodeway Inn make you think of horrible ways to die"? Well, dear readers, it's because I think about such things all the time. I blame a can of Diet Pepsi.

It was seven years ago. It was August. It was hot. The Pepsi had been sitting in my car, unopened, for about a week. I got in, sat down, started the car, and the can exploded. It flew around the car, splattering hot soda everywhere and scaring the day lights out of me. And then I realized, if it had killed me, that would be my legacy -- being killed by a can of Diet Pepsi. All of my experiences, all of my accomplishments, all of my personality traits -- none of that would be remembered. I would forever be the woman killed by a can of Diet Pepsi. My obituary would appear on the "Obscure Store" and other blogs with snarky commentary about how nutritionists always warned about the dangers of diet soda. At that moment I vowed to avoid such a fate at all costs. Of course, I am not quite ready to wrap myself in bubble wrap just to ensure a dignified death. I like to experience things, like scuba diving, feeding random animals, and hot air balloon rides. So, instead of not doing things I just imagine how they could kill me. I figure if I do that it will stop such scenarios from ever coming true.

I have since pictured myself being impaled on a four poster bed, slipping on cat food and falling down the stairs into the basement, tripping over my Crocs on a rain slicked street, and being crushed under the weight of my Health Rider while trying to carry it into the living room. Just looking around this room right now I can see at least five ways to die ludicrously, including being killed by an exploding television set, or being crushed and dismembered at the same time by a falling ceiling fan.

I don't just think about ways to die, either. I've also, at times, branched out into how I could be seriously injured in bizarre ways, which would not only result in the embarrassing blog posts, but also the indignity of being alive to read them. I imagine what would be written if I lost an eye to a broken wine glass, or cut off my hand while attempting to fix the vacuum. I think I could consider my fears of death and maiming a hobby, if I weren't almost positive it's a sign of some kind of mental disorder. OHMIGOD! I could die of some brain disease that first manifests itself if with random, narcissistic, fears of death. And because I would be the first to have it, they would name if after me. People would forever fear getting "Libby's Syndrome."

I think I have now found something worse than being killed by a can of Diet Pepsi...