Mail Box Adventure

I'm a guy who routinely returns his shopping cart to the corral in the grocery store parking lot. I take pains to avoid exposing volatile household cleaners to direct sunlight or extreme temperatures. I unfailingly refrigerate after opening.

And if it even needs to be said, I consistently acknowledge those gracious-enough to allow me into traffic—especially during rush hour.

So how is it a mindful and conscientious soul like myself received the following in his mailbox?

Outwardly, they didn't appear particularly threatening. One envelope contained an invitation to one of those we'll-buy-you-dinner-if-you-listen-to-our-sales-pitch, while the other was a notice from my car manufacturer.

No biggie, right?

And taken separately, I'd agree with you. But together they served to impart nagging doubts about my life and the karma I am putting out there.

The invitation was just that, only there wasn't a free dinner included. But it did extend to me the opportunity to explore questions one should ask before one “needs” to ask them. And by that I mean our (ahem) 'final expenses'.

Having just recovered from a bout with head trauma for which I sacrificed two-thirds of the summer, I wasn't particularly eager to ponder—much less plan—my funeral.

I set it down and opened the envelope from the car-maker.

It was yet-another notice informing me of a recall on my seat belt pretensioners. It (again) explained that if deployed incorrectly, the unit's micro gas generator could explode, exposing all within the passenger compartment to jagged pieces of metal hurtling through the car at skin-piercing velocities.

More importantly, four months after the recall was initially announced, there are still no non-explosive pretensioners available. Just paper reminders of the death trap I must ride in daily. If nothing else, the notice lent an eerie sense of portent to the 'final expenses' invitation.

If my body is to be shredded to the point of cessation by what is reportedly a safety device, does the car manufacture's customer care package at least guarantee a ride to the nearest medical facility, where my death can be properly confirmed and recorded?

And if not, is it the comprehensive customer care package the manufacturer states it is? Can my estate sue for misrepresentation?

And looking to the cause-and-effect side of things, is it possible to draw a line between the organization offering the 'final expenses' presentation and any and all explosions caused by the faulty micro gas generators?

Sigh. Life is complicated.

I sidestep the Q&A and visit an attorney. There, I declare my preferences as to how memorial events following my death should unfold. From there, it's off to a firm specializing in body armor. The head-to-toe protection isn't cheap but, this firm excepted, can you really put a price on human life?

It renders driving very difficult and places an undue burden on my car's air conditioning unit. Owing to the proportions of the head protection, I'm thankful for the sunroof. Ignoring heartless comments about resembling a certain seventies cartoon character, I relish my newfound sense of protection.

And to think some people refer to this as junk mail.