Things I’ll never do before I die

I watched The Bucket List recently for the 30th-something time. Other than the fact that I have a huge old guy “thing” for both Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson (yeah, I like the bad boys) that watching this movie satisfies, I always come away from that flick with a new bucket list of my own.

Only on my latest list, the things aren’t what I WILL do before I die…they are what I will be sure NEVER to do before I kick the bucket.

Public dancing of any sort: waltz, salsa, ballroom, tango, country line, swing, popping, waving, tutting or even the merengue. It doesn’t look good on Margaret Cho or David Hasselhoff and it sure as hell won’t look good on me.

Drive a SMART Car. There isn’t anything intelligent about sitting on top of a blender motor, wrapping oneself in aluminum foil, and then driving 65 MPH on the freeway.

Dye my hair blonde. It’ll never happen because if it did, in my mind’s eye, I’d see myself as the trim, lovely, ultra-cool, Tippi Hedren as she starred in Marnie, circa 1964. In reality, I’d look like Marilyn Monroe, as she starred in her autopsy photos, circa 1962.

Visit the Great Wall of China. So, to visit the Great Wall, I have to fly 13 hours, take a five-hour bus ride from the nearest nice hotel, walk all day and then take photos of a rock wall while being jostled by 1,000,000 other visitors and the locals, all angling for the best shot. Hmm. There’s a reason people build walls: they want everyone to stay on the other side. Consider me compliant.

Allow my grandchildren to call me pet names. Nothing says disgustingly-cute-yet-disrespectful like hearing a little kid pipe up, “I love you, MeeMaw!” Or, “Pop-Pop, can you give me a horsey-back ride?” Ugh. If I had ever called my Grandfather Ryan “Pop-Pop” to his face, I would have been spitting Chiclets for the rest of the day. Note to future grand-offspring: call me Peggy (or Grandma, if you must) if you want to stay in the will (and keep your teeth).

Eat kale. It’s green. It’s slimy. It has loads of vitamins and minerals and absolutely no taste. Pass me the garden hose. I’d rather eat that.

Watch the “Matrix.” I hate migraines. That movie is a $63 million migraine waiting to happen to me. Not enough Advil in the world to ease that cinematic pain in the brain.

Cheer for the New York Yankees. No way. I’d rather die. Or eat kale. Same difference.

Let a mime entertain me. The “work” of mimes, clowns and any incarnation of the Blue Man Group or Cirque du Soleil is “entertainment” in the loosest form of the word. I despise nonsensical, in-your-face entertainment – the calling card of mimes and clowns. Blue Man Group and Cirque du Soleil take that freakishness to a whole new level: bizarre, pointless, un-funny intrusions of my space bubble emanating  from grimacing, writhing, blue- or snakeskin-painted bodies. It is my long-held belief that Cirque du Soleil escaped from the LSD-soaked mind of Dr. Timothy Leary. I hope someone will taser it and send it back where it belongs.

Join a booster or fan club. Have you ever MET me?

Eat Turducken. Although the Food Network cooking shows make it look fun and tasty, this quaint little dish – consisting of a de-boned chicken stuffed into a de-boned duck, which itself is stuffed into a de-boned turkey – just can’t be on any of my menus. Let’s just say I make it a policy never to eat anything that has the word “turd” in it.

Tweet. Oh, sure, my workplace is connected to Twitter. I am not. People who have egos bloated enough to need to constantly remind others of every minute detail of their lives are the people who put the “twit” in Twitter. Besides, if I am ever doing something as fascinating and unbelievable as eating kale and watching the Matrix while wearing my Yankee cap and dancing the cha-cha on the Great Wall of China…I’ll be dead.

And I’ll need a helluva lot more than 140 characters to “tweet” about that.