The other day I was in line at the grocery store, and an older woman in line behind me struck up a conversation. Not to digress right out of the gate, but one thing I love about being home is how friendly everyone is and how easily you can find yourself talking to virtually anyone around you…if you’re open to it. Anyway, at some point the cashier carded me, and I said to her, “How generous of you. Either that, or you have a ‘card anyone under 100 years old policy.”
“You’re still young,” she replied
“Not as young as I used to be! At my most recent birthday, all I could think was, ‘How did this happen!?!?'”
“It goes fast,” the woman in line declared.
The cashier agreed with her, “It goes really fast.”
The scariest words ever uttered. On the one hand, I don’t mind getting older. I think I’m somewhat wiser, and I can see that there are things I used to worry about and care about and fret about that no longer faze me. This is good. The problem is, I have no desire to look 75 or 80 years old. Anyone seen Hugh Hefner and Larry King lately? Talk about Tales from the Crypt. (And they’re the good examples. They are presumably aging naturally and even relatively gracefully. Throw in some ill-advised plastic surgery in the mix, and you have, well, Donatella Versace. And she’s not even old! [born in 1955])
Thus, it occurred to me that if I could stay frozen at this appearance forever, I don’t really care how old I get. And the best way to achieve that mix of youth and immortality? Vampirism, of course.
Think about it, being a vampire has some clear upsides:
1. Time is on your side. Who cares if you don’t make your first million before you’re 30 or 40 or 400? You’re going to live FOREVER. Why do today what you can put off to the next millennium?
2. Low overhead. All you need are a couple ready-to-wear black satin capes and some red lipstick and you’re set. No need to follow the trends or re-up that subscription to Vogue.
3. No more garlic breath.
4. No more fretting over your bad hair day or big butt in the mirror. Let me break it down for you: If there’s no reflection, there’s nothing to sweat.
5. The nightlife is killer. (Yuk, yuk, yuk. Thank you, I’ll be here all week…)
On the other hand, I must acknowledge a few obvious limitations, the most significant being the the killing of people to drain them for blood. I struggled with this a bit. At first I thought about people on death row, but in actuality, I don’t agree with the death penalty, and a whole lifetime duking it out with my own conscience sounds like a drag. Then I thought maybe getting a job at a suicide hotline? Win/win?
It was at that point I remembered that here in Washington state we just passed a euthanasia/death with dignity measure that allows terminally ill patients to elect to end their own lives. However, Washington doctors have officially stated that they will not support it and will not assist anyone. This leaves a marketplace for your friendly local vampire – an opportunity to help someone die on their terms AND satiate my endless desire for blood.
Plus, let’s face it. Female vampires are sexy. If ya gotta go, you may as well make it memorable!
I told a friend about my insane line of thought (and how it would probably be today’s blog), and she asked if I read the Twilight – soon to be a major motion picture! – books. I haven’t. In fact, I only became aware of their existence because of all the hype around the movie. I’ve also never read an Anne Rice book, although once, long ago, I did stand outside her house in New Orleans and gawk.
Speaking of which, I just checked the Wikipedia to see if she still owns the house and how it fared in Katrina (no problems), and read, “On January 30, 2004, having already put the largest of her three homes up for sale, Rice announced her plans to leave New Orleans. She cited living alone since the death of her husband and her son’s moving out of State as the reasons. “Simplifying my life, not owning so much, that’s the chief goal”, said Rice. “I’ll no longer be a citizen of New Orleans in the true sense.” Rice may also have wished for more privacy from the constant attentions of her fans, who were known to camp out in front of her house; up to 200 or more would gather to see her leave for church on Sundays.”
Oops. I can promise I was not part of that camp (and I like to think I wouldn’t have been had I even known this church on Sundays thing), but apologies Anne, all the same! If it helps, I now feel like a jerk. And a mortal one at that.