Laurie Holman: Comedy Writer, Copywriter, Chocolate Connoisseur

Awhile ago, I had a strange experience when leaving my apartment one morning. The night before, I had had one of those pseudo-heart-attack incidents. You know, when you wake up at three in the morning feeling like an orangutan is sitting on your chest and wonder if you’re actually having a heart attack, or if you should just take a Zantac and go back to bed.

I went over my checklist. Can I get up and move around? Can I take deep yoga breaths? If I’m capable of going through a checklist, does that mean I’m probably not having a heart attack? I did, in fact, end up taking the Zantac and going to sleep.

When I left my apartment the next day, I saw my neighbor unlocking her door. I said hi to her. No response. I said hello again, somewhat louder. Still nothing. I passed a woman on the bike path and smiled at her. She didn’t seem to notice me. Then it hit me. Maybe I’m dead. Like Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense, no one seemed to be able to see or hear me. Maybe it was a heart attack, and I only thought I went back to sleep and woke up the next day. I did, however, remember peeing that morning. Do dead people pee? Wouldn’t Bruce Willis’s character have noticed that he never had to go to the bathroom, and suspected something was amiss? Of course, maybe if I were actually dead, I only imagined peeing, to maintain the illusion. If I were going to imagine stuff, maybe I could imagine having sex with George Clooney. At least that would make it worthwhile.

Needless to say, I was eventually both seen and heard by living people, so I figured I wasn’t dead after all. Unless, of course, we’re all in denial …