Mud is the new black.

Nothing like a funeral to remind you how A.D.D. you really are.

It was muddy from the morning’s rain. Walking through the cemetery, I was irritated that the heels of my black leather boots kept sinking into the soft ground. It was an outdoor funeral of a co-worker’s father who had died from a long term illness. I never met the man. I didn’t even know his name until I read the generic funeral home service bulletin.

Before the service began, I did the obligatory meet and greet. It felt weird being in such a great mood at such a sad funeral. I did a decent acting job while shaking the hands of the surviving family members. I soon located a familiar face and hobbled over for a quick chat. She must have also been emotionally detached from the somber settings because we were quickly laughing so loud that people stared. We broke funeral etiquette #1.

My funeral-rebel friend and I calmed down once the service began. Standing in direct sunlight, I grew jealous of the family members and their sheltered reserved seating. They were under the pavilion and out of the mud. I think next time I’ll bring crutches as a prop so I can selfishly have a seat. I mean, if you’re going to go through the trouble of putting out two rows of chairs, you might as well put four or six… right?

The obsession over my muddy heels escalated. They were so far into the ground that it looked as if I was wearing flats. The thought of sinking into soft cemetery ground gave me the creeps. I kept adjusting my footing, but nothing worked. I visualized the people standing behind me laughing at my shoe struggle. I convinced myself that at dinner tonight, they would tell their families the belly laughing story of some crazy chick in front of them at the funeral.

Although I should have been listening to the preacher, there were several other things preoccupying my brain.

My bored hands kept fiddling with the generic funeral service program. You know the kind… a picture on the front of the sun beaming through calming clouds. Then there’s the predictable bible verse on the inside. At my funeral I don’t want a picture of calming clouds or a predictable bible verse. As I stood there still shuffling my feet, I decided that I want a picture of me on the front and Matthew 22:27 “Finally, the woman died.” printed across the bottom. Might as well go out with a little humor.

I began thinking I could start designing funky funeral programs. Customize them to the person. People would pay for that, right? If the goal is to not be traditional, then the sky’s the limit on what I can do. I personally would much rather have my favorite Picasso painting on the front than a photo of a babbling brook. Of course there are copyright laws… I’ll consult my lawyer.

As I transformed my program into an origami project, I nonchalantly glanced through the crowd for prospects. Cute men go to funerals, too… right? Well, not this one. I laughed at the idea of meeting Mr. Right For Me at a funeral. Stranger things have happened.

After judging everyone’s clothes and hairstyles, I decided to tune into what the preacher had to say. He spoke of love and forgiveness. The typical funeral sermon. Each time he said something poignant, everyone’s head would bow in agreement. I wondered how many funerals we’ve all stood through in our lives hearing this same message. How many times we all bow our heads in agreement and then walk away not remembering a thing. I wondered how many funerals it takes for us to hear the message.

Staring down at my muddy shoes, I thought about my own stubbornness.

My own reluctance to forgive… to love. How many funerals will it take me to learn the basic necessities of life. How many muddy shoes will it take for me to realize that I stand in my own way. Who’s funeral will make me realize that these big complex issues that I struggle with daily actually have an answer. At what point will I understand that stealing someone else’s sheltered seat is a poor way of facing my own issues.

When the funeral concluded, I said my goodbyes to my rebel friend and co-worker.

Hobbling to the car, I craved a Sonic Cherry Limeaid. I never got one. Although unrecognizable, my origami project turned out well and the desire to design customizable service programs has faded.

I think I’ll wear flats to the next outdoor funeral.