Joe hit a tree on his snowmachine, he’s dead.” Joe died? That’s so awful.” Yeah, but you know, at least he died doing what he loved.”
People. You think that makes sense? It doesn’t. Stop saying it.
If you’re doing what you love to do, the last thing you want to do is die while you’re doing it.
“I’m bowling and I love it. Oh dee-doo dee-deee, I love the sounds. Love how it smells when they spray the shoes. Love the shoes even, I stole a pair once. I love bowling. See this ball? The way I hold it; I love how it feels. I average 248 for cripes’ sakes. You see that 7/10 split I just picked up? Huh? Impressive right? It’s Friday night and I’m bowling. I love bowling, love it. I love bowling! I wish to hell I’d die right now.
I’m having so much fun skipping stones here this afternoon. I could skip them allll afternoon.
Something about skipping stones. Just skipped one 56 times, personal record. Gonna go 60 on the next one.
I love seeing the Sun reflecting off the ripples the stones make while skipping. The breeze is perfect, so too the temperature. Great weather for skipping stones—hell, it’s always great weather for skipping stones, cause I love to skip stones. Love it. I love skipping stones man I’m telling you, - so much, I wish ta hell I’d drop dead right now.
You know what I love doing? Waterskiing. Look at me go. Ain’t I something on this water ski, jumping back and forth over the wake. Tell ya, it feels so fine, feels better than being in love man. I love feeling the warm water and air and sun shining down while I water ski behind this fast moving boat. I am–in–love with water skiing and do not want to stop. Don’t slow down boat driver, keep me going on top of this water man because I just love to water ski. Love it more than life itself, and to prove it, I’ll tell you I wish I’d just to hang n’ gone fall and hit the wake so hard that I die on the spot.
Do those three passages prove my point that you don’t want to die doing what you love to do? No? Well try this.
You’re in bed with the gal you’ve yearned for since your freshman year in high school when you’d follow her closely enough so to catch a tiny whiff of her clean smelling hair. You sent her flowers anonymously, 50 times in four years. The few times you spoke you never talked about yourself, you just asked questions about her. You’ve not only been in love with her for years, but you’ve lusted for her, most steadily for nearly two decades, and, now, due to nothing you’ve done correctly, you are laying next to her in bed in a cottage along the coast of Maine, the waves crashing against the shore, and you turn to her and start something that has just this moment turned into the deepest, most passionate, yet base sexual bit of lovemaking that you could have ever imagined, and right before you are both about to reach a level of ecstasy the best writers in the history of words would be left paralyzed trying to print, you croak.
You do not want to die doing what you love doing.
Now after you’re finished, she gets up to go to the bathroom, comes back, lays real close next to you and whispers in your ear “Honey bunny, lets cuddle.” That’s when you want to die.
No, not me, I don’t want to die doing something that I love, I want to die doing something I hate.
Going to a wedding.
Rusty DeWees tours Vermont and Northern New York with his act “The Logger.” His column appears weekly. Reach him at email@example.com.