“But I love going to funerals,” I told my husband.
“I know, and I’ve never understood why.”
“It’s simple. Woody Allen supposedly said something like 90% of life is just showing up. But the way I see it, for funerals, just showing up is 100%. You don’t have to say anything deep, or, really, say anything at all. Nodding, smiling, or touching a hand is all you need to do, and just if you want to. You only have to show up to make the friends and relatives feel appreciated, cared for in a difficult time, and all you have to do is dress up just a little and sit through some inflated hogwash about the departed.”
“That’s it? You’re on a mission to make people feel good?”
“Not a bad mission, is it? I might even see some friends of mine and get something good to eat. It’s not a bad deal — very little effort in exchange for making others feel loved. I’d go to more if I knew more people.”
“But you barely know these people. He was my co-worker, not yours.”
“That’s just the point. If he had been my co-worker, I’d be expected to go; attendance would be a minimum requirement. I’d be a jerk if I didn’t go for my own co-worker; I’d have to go. But this time your co-worker died, so I get to show some love voluntarily. It’s a no-brainer.”
“OK. You can go with me. But remember that funeral last year? Don’t bring up Chuckles the Clown’s funeral on the Mary Tyler Moore Show like you did then.”