A WING, A PRAYER, AND SOME BUBBLE WRAP

Normally, my blood pressure is nicely low, but when I opened the letter from our office  health insurance provider and saw the renewal rates for our health plan, I could feel the blood pounding in my eyeballs (which is usually a sign I had fun last night, but not this time).  After lobbing a few pirate-y phrases in the letter’s general direction, I did a little calculation.  If we want to keep the same so-so coverage with high deductible, our rate will increase 70 percent.  That’s a Seven with an Oh my Gawd  after it. 

My agent patiently explained the reasoning behind the increase.  Seems that health insurance premiums are based on the average age of the group, and since the 23 year old kid was no longer on the plan I was now the youngest member of our group.  Stifle your guffaws, hearing that I was the youngest anything instantly lowered my blood pressure.  

In the real world, me being the baby of the group boosted our average age  way far up there.  I suggested they use my Leap Year age, but that was nixed quickly and a bit too snarkily, I thought.  As a rule, I tend to blindly and trustingly accept any explanations I am given, but I had time to ponder my agent’s explanation  while waiting for my glass to chill.  The more I pondered, the less sense I decided it made. 

So, faithful fan, shift your Rascal Scooter into ‘Idle’ and read along while I try to hoist the bullshit flag on their thought process without dislocating anything.  Please keep in mind that most of my reasoning only pertains to me, but this is always all about me, so there.

While the insurance provider views growing older as a liability, I think it should be seen as the insurance company’s best friend.  At my age, I can guarantee I will not get pregnant again, for at the very least three reasons.  AARP doesn’t have any child raising tips on its website, I’ve already  been spayed, and  I figured out what causes it and have learned to pace myself accordingly (not always by choice, but that’s a story for another time).



Sassy, but not good in snow



Next, and anyone who has ever seen me in public will attest to this, I am all about function over fashion.  Gone are the days when I would risk a sprain, a break and/or hypothermia by negotiating an icy driveway while wearing 3 inch heels and a sassy silk wrap because I want to make an entrance.  Now, I don’t care if it’s New Year’s Eve, Eric Clapton is the entertainment and on the rebound.  I’ll still wear the little black dress, the bling, the makeup and the pouffy hair, but before I venture outside, I will haul on the  LL Bean Winter Sneaks, insulated mittens and the big down parka.  Sure, I’ll still be noticed upon my arrival, but only because the other guests will be wondering who invited the Michelin Tire fella.



Me in my winter duds



Third  -- I have, for the most part, learned my limits.  I still have a cocktail or three, but staying out til last call and risking a tipsy tumble or a hysterically awkward dismount later on?  Not usually.  A wild and crazy night for me ends shortly after sunset, with a sensible dinner and doing the crossword puzzle – in pen.  I know what effect more than a couple drinks have on me, and I have too much to do on a Saturday to spend the day making apologies to everyone I may have offended Friday night.  

Fourth  - I have learned from past ‘incidences’ and I no longer  panic and make unnecessary trips to the doctor’s office.  I’ve experienced enough sore throats to know it ain’t strep.  I know when to apply ice and when to apply heat, I know that every headache is not a tumor.  I have learned that making friends with a hypochondriac is a fabulous timesaver.  They know all the symptoms and treatments, and whatever affliction I may have, they have already survived it and can talk me through it.

My agent’s even weaker backup excuse was that as we age our bodies are changing which generates medical expense.   My thought is our bodies are changing from the nanosecond that one sperm with a decent sense of direction finds the trampy little egg that’s given him the ‘come aboard’ signal.  Overall, I think I made a pretty darned fine argument for my side. 

I called my agent back and presented my case. Unfortunately the insurance company didn’t see it my way, so rather than shell out close to a paycheck a month for something I hope I don’t use, I am a proud subscriber to the Wing and a Prayer health plan.  I’m gonna  wrap myself in bubble wrap, look both ways,  and try to eat right.  If something really big happens I have a plan;  I’ll drag myself (or be dragged) to work and swear it happened there.  If my boss is serious about firing me then charging me with trespassing, I’ll throw a wicked cool fundraiser for the Little Debbie Disaster Relief Fund.  You’ll all be invited.

I’ve got it under control – I don’t need no stinking health insurance.  Although, I do miss being the youngest person on a list.