The past few years on my birthday, I’ve been out of the country.
Two years ago, while I was in Jamaica, my mom and grandma broke into my condo (with their key) and hid cute handwritten encouragement slips of paper all over.
The next year I was in Mexico for my birthday, and they broke in while I was gone and filled it with balloons.
This year, due to the explosion of Crumb Hill and my lifelong affinity for creepy things, my mom broke in and hid these little skulls everywhere.
And I mean everywhere.
I keep opening random drawers and finidng them. Or I have people over and pull out a board game for us to play, and boom — inside the box is a little skull. I laugh every time. She even hid one under my shower drain, so the next time I pulled it out to clean out the hair, sure enough, there was a skull underneath.
So as they get found, I don’t know what to do with them, so I kind of just leave them all over now. There are dozens of these little skulls all over my crib. And today I was looking at one and realized that one day, that will be me.
I will just be bones.
And now that’s likely all I will think of as I see these little memento mori’s scattered all over the place. So my house has become a place of goofy reflections on death, which I’m sure was not my mom’s intention when she hid hundreds of skulls all over my pad.
It’s not a bad thing to reflect on, especially whenever I find myself becoming complacent or comfortable. They now prompt me to ask myself,
Is this the life I want?
Am I who I want to be?
Why am I standing in place?
Ask yourself the same things.
So with zero sarcasm whatsoever, thanks, Mommy!
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