You’re using your laptop to reserve seats for a children’s movie you have no interest in seeing. Because Saturdays are often reserved for children’s activities in which you have little or no interest. And while you are doing this, your feet are on the floor, but your upper body is on the bed. So naturally, as if by some pre-ordained right or evolutionary mandate, your kids begin using your butt and legs as a slide. And you’re only half paying attention, because you’re inputting credit card information, and trying to find good seats that are together and whatnot. And a line forms. And they’re sitting on your back or leaning on your head. And there’s an argument about whether one of them is taking too long, because “people are waiting!” And two go down at once, but one wasn’t ready yet, so she grabs your pants, which come off, to the debilitating amusement of all witnesses. And in that bare-assed moment, your mind flashes forward to your eventual funeral, and the words your children may share about you. Or more precisely, the words they may omit. And chief among the adjectives that are not likely to be uttered on that day is the word “dignified.”

And you’re okay with that.