Richard upped his life insurance this week. He flipped open the policy letter to show me the rather substantial amount, at which he declared that I'd be all set if he kicks the bucket. I asked him if he plans on doing that anytime soon, at which he answered that it being a 20 year term insurance, he's aiming at 20 years plus a day.
Later, in bed, where all good conversations happen, he asked me what I'd do if he died. After the obligatory, "Oh, I'd mourn forever and never ever get over it.", we got down to the business of how we'd find a replacement spouse (for me the drive is mostly that I wouldn't have the time or energy to mow the lawn. It's cheaper to house and feed someone than to hire out, I figure.).
"I think the grocery store would be the best place, " says Richard. "I'd hang out in the meat section, and whoever bought the best cuts of meat, I'd marry her."
"Yeah, that'd be pretty good. That would be a good woman."
"I know what I'd do," I say. "I'd spend my days at the granite shop, you know where they sell gravestones?"
"And when a nice looking man came to pick out a pretty stone, I'd say, 'Is that stone for your wife? That's so sad. Let's go have coffee and you can tell me all about it.' It'd be a sure thing."
Richard nods. "That's a special kind of plan, alright."
"Don't die, okay?"
You know you have a good man when you'd rather have him than his insurance money.