So...not to get into a theological debate about this, but I hope St. Peter will be stepping aside for me to stumble through those pearly gates when I kick the can. If not, well...there is the other place.
The other place of which I am certain I experienced a little bit of this afternoon. I attended my son's junior high band concert. I did so in a foul mood because my pants were tight and I believe my stomach is now the same size as it was when I was five months pregnant. I very meanly took this foulness out on my poor, unsuspecting and startled husband.
My observation du jour was this: my own version of hell will be me, chained to a bench that provides no back support and I will be forced to listen to "The Final Countdown," "20 Christmas Carols in 2 minutes," and "Aria and Arietta" played by uninspired, jaded 8th graders.
Satan will add a little more salt to my bleeding ears by having the band teacher, who is conducting this malfeasance, stop between every song and give the background on the song, why he chose the song for this particular group of children, and other little nuggets of information he deems useful for our benefit in attaining the full appreciation for each of these pieces.
I will smile as my child comes towards me and, although I could not locate him in the greasy mass of preteen angst, tell him (with a smile plastered on my pained face) that he did a wonderful job and will ask him polite and appropriate questions.
My feet will be asleep and my back will ache to the point I am **this** close to feeling a tad bit crippled.
Then, the whole scene will reverse and I will be sitting on the bench again and the concert will start to replay.
Over and over and over and over. Throughout all eternity.
I have learned my lesson. My next child will play a string, not a brass, instrument. The sound will be pleasing to my ears and he will play only Handel and Vivaldi.