Well, it’s official. I can die now.

Finally, after three months of filling out forms, getting blood and urine tests, re-testing those tests, and trading hundreds of e-mails with our ever-affable insurance salesman, we finally, this morning — amidst a cacophony of Mina barks and MJ shrieks — signed our life insurance policies. It’s done. If one of us dies the other is now protected.

From bankruptcy.

Loneliness, bereavement, single-parenthood — those things are, unfortunately, uncoverable. Although maybe there’s a business idea in there…

Anyway. My favorite part of our new policies? The packaging:

“Life changes?” Um, to death. You may as well just say it. That’s not a rising sun you’re showing there.

Anyway. I feel as good as you can feel about something so morbid. Getting this done is a big relief. But I don’t feel like I can put my feet up. Or even elevate them a little on a low stool. Or even really sit down for longer than five minutes.

Why? Because I am not nearly done. On the road to responsible adulthood I am basically at the entrance ramp. (Which is better than the service roads I have spent the last, oh, twenty years on). Now there’s earthquake insurance to be gotten to. And 2011 taxes. Then a living trust. And wills! And living wills! Is there such a thing as a willing trust? A trusting life? A trusting will? If so I’ll likely be applying for those, too.

At this rate I will die soon. Of paperwork poisoning.

But at least now I can do it in good conscience.