When I Die, I Expect You To Wait In Line 30 Hours To Pay Your Respects
When a member of the Queen’s guard passed out cold while standing vigil at her coffin in Westminster Hall, all I could think about was the time Tracy Packard fainted in marching band during a half-time show.
Much like the guards attending the Queen’s body, we too were overdressed in a stressful situation.
Plus some of us, like Tracy Packard, were holding tubas. I don’t see a single Queen’s guard holding a tuba. Just sayin’.
Plus we marched in summer in ancient, hand-me-down polyester and there’s a high probability that at least some of us were hungover. It’s a miracle more of us didn’t face-plant in the middle of Hang On Sloopy.
We had the same problem in chorus. My last words on my deathbed will probably be, “Don’t lock your knees.”
If you locked your knees, it was all over. You were going down like a time-lapse of a piece of bread succumbing to mold.
One minute you were fine, belting out the chorus to O Come All Ye Faithful to a rapt audience of parents in a stuffy auditorium. And the next, you were a green puddle being held up by the crush of bodies around you.
If you started to sweat, you knew you were in trouble. Then came the gray blobs blossoming in your field of vision, obscuring your view of the grimy, dog-eared lyrics in your damp hands, and then it was lights out.
This didn’t usually happen to kids on the top riser because there was air circulating up there. Plus they were the tallest kids in the class, so they probably had better lung capacity.
But if you were middle of the pack — not too tall and not too short — you were dead meat. And if you had to wear robes or (God forbid) Santa beards, forget about it.
When I die, I expect you to pass out in my honor after waiting in line 30 hours like I’m a new iPhone.