There’s an old joke about the young bride who arrives at the altar with her hair in curlers: “I want to look nice for the reception.”
This isn’t the same dynamic, exactly, but somehow it reminded me of that old joke:
I want to be buried wearing knits.
I don’t wear knits. Knits make me look lumpy. Nothing screams, “OH LOOK! She had three kids!” like my wearing a knit ensemble. So I don’t.
But I decided, if I can get hold of the morticians before I die and give them my wishes, maybe I can have them cut away all the tummy fat that makes me look mommish, and give me the flat stomach I really never had. A good push up bra and I could have one helluva body.
I dunno. I know some women with industrial-strength muffin tops we’re talking the full Otis Spunkmeyer here who still register pretty strongly on the hawtness meter. Not that they’d believe me if I told them so.
Still, I’ve heard worse ideas for Last Requests. And let’s face it, having all this stuff done while you’re actually alive is much more expensive and much more likely to have unpleasant side effects.