One of my friends who is younger than I am has already written her obituary. It strikes me as a smart pre-emptive and necessary exercise to prepare for the inevitable. I did it for my mother. My father died during COVID so there was no funeral or obituary.

My husband is five years older than me and I’ve found myself occasionally wondering if I should start to draft up something to honour his life in case the worst happens unexpectedly. Women typically outlive our husbands, however, we can never make assumptions about who is going to go first. Maybe he will outlive me and perhaps I should be preparing my swan song in case he forgets who I am . . . or was . . . or fails to do me justice. Who knows me better than me and with no children of my own, there’s no one better qualified than me to summarize my life.

When I peruse the obituaries in the weekend newspapers, though, I’m always left feeling as if my life has been a giant snore-fest. How would I stack up against people who have lived amazing lives, or raised children who have gone on to become doctors, scientists, leaders in their field, or humanitarians? So many of the recently departed have long lists of accomplishments, community service, business success, or have overcome monumental challenges. I can’t even manage to lose that troublesome twenty pounds I’ve been carrying around for a generation or psyche myself up to cook more creative meals.  Everyone is busy, busy, busy and so accomplished. And I am not.

As I contemplate my own obit, “Lynda loved napping, drinking tea, reading, and writing her blog”, it simply does not measure up to the high-octave legacy of other people. I have never committed a crime or served time in prison. I floss religiously and I am a conscientious recycler. What else can I say? And, let’s not even think about what picture to use. I can’t recall a decent picture ever taken of me in my entire lifetime. For some strange reason, what I perceive as my uncanny resemblance to Princess Diana is never evident in pictures.

Lots of people pad their résumé when they’re trying to move up in the business world. So, would anyone object if I embellished my obituary a teeny bit to smooth my way to heaven or create a more lasting legacy? Would anyone believe I single-handedly turned around a major corporation’s success with my brilliant marketing initiatives? Was I the anarchist who finally succeeded in making it illegal to use white grout in floor tile? Would I go down in history as the person who ultimately convinced the local and provincial governments to build a subway to the end of my street in Mississauga so that in my dotage when I’ve lost my licence I could still venture downtown?

Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be remembered for being the person who came up with a plan that reduced hospital emergency room wait times from ten hours to five minutes? Or, if only I could claim credit for writing the definitive, all-time, best-selling book of essays (check out We’re Not Dead Yet!, my latest) that outsold anything written by J.K. Rowling. If only. There are just so many things I wish I could say I accomplished but alas have not.

Baby boomers have already learned from the experience of losing our own parents that no one wants our silverware, china, or dining room suite. That framed Tricia Romance or Robert Bateman print from the seventies will be worthless to those we leave behind. The beautiful (to me) armoire I spent my entire annual bonus on will probably end up parked at the curb. My life’s treasures are flea market fodder.

My husband and I recently updated our wills, Powers of Attorney, and other legal documents. I still have to fill out the little When I’m Gone Planner and Life Organizer book I ordered on Amazon to help whoever distributes the remains of my estate figure out who gets my jewelry, purses and shoes. There are no Nobel prizes, tennis club trophies, community awards, gold stars, or offspring to mark my existence. I’m afraid my obituary will be something most people will skip over and the next day I will be forgotten.

There is some consolation, however, in knowing that if being me means being remembered as having an amazing circle of good friends and family, being kind whenever possible, never telling lies, or always being honest and understanding, then I guess that will be my legacy. I would also like to be remembered for nearly single-handedly eating Italy’s entire supply of gelato in 2001, and for that single, incredible, amazing, proud time my personal essay was published on the First Person page of The Globe and Mail newspaper a couple of years ago. And, I’ve self-published four books. In my world, those things count for something.

The world will continue to rotate on its axis as always the day after I’m gone but my ashes may rest in peace knowing I lived a good life and I have many things for which I am eternally thankful. I just hope the cemetery in my hometown where my ashes will be interred has WiFi so I can keep downloading library books in the afterlife. The life I lived will speak for itself—ordinary, happy, and grateful for my blessings. What more could anyone ask for? Maybe I don’t need to embellish my obituary after all.