My Least Favorite Way to Die

Here at the beach in Florida, with so many people frolicking in the waves, it's hard not to think of the movie Jaws. At least it's hard for me, as I am quite impressionable and the image of human legs dangling enticingly like tasty hors d'oeuvres from the shark's point of view has stayed with me since I first saw the classic film in 1975. This keeps me from fully enjoying my time in the surf; getting eaten by a shark is the worst way I can think of to go.

I shared this thought with my husband, who disagreed and insisted that it would be, "a noble and honorable death, part of the grand scheme of life." We then embarked on a conversation about what's the worst way to die. Morbid, yes, but hey, it's good to plan. Mitch thinks getting eaten by a predator is far superior to getting shot by a terrorist or suffering in a hospital ICU, hooked up to tubes on a ventilator. "Predation is the way of the world," says Mitch. And since we have been predators all our life, especially Mitch for whom no day is complete without eating some kind of animal, for us to become prey is "karmically fulfilling."

I countered: Getting shot is over in a flash and likely painless, and in the hospital scenario at least you are in a comfy bed being cared for by professionals. The shark death is almost too gruesome to envision, yet annually in the United States there are 16 such attacks per year, with a fatality every two years.

Forget karma. When I die I want to be in one piece.