Death and Taxes Insurance?

I signed up for disability insurance the other day because my profession as a super hero doesn’t pay into social security.



Super heroes have excellent disability benefits. We teachers, however, make so much money  that The People in Charge deem it an unnecessary expense for us pay into a government-supported safety net.



But all jokes aside– that’s a lie, everything I say, ever, is a joke– when I sat down to discuss my insurance options I was faced with One Tough Crowd.

The woman talking me through my disability options not only had the personality of a prostate exam, but her conversations skills were as worn out as Michelle Duggar’s uterus.

“Are you married?” she asks, and I say, “No, ma’am.” She checks off a box and types for some minutes.

“Are your parents alive?” “Yes,” I say. She smiles at me over the top of her I-shit-you-not thick-rimmed wingtip eyeglasses–


Stolen image from

Then, she said, “Well, you’re young. Life insurance beneficiary?” As if, “life insurance beneficiary,” were as standard a question as, “Would you like fries with that?” or “Team Edward or Team Real Literature?”

Naturally, I stared at her and smiled, expectantly awaiting clarification. 

There was none. So, I say, “Mom?” Her glasses magically slide lower on her nose, her head tilts impossibly farther forward, and her eyes roll so far toward the upper lids that I swear this woman was actually one of those terrifying dolls from the 1950’s with full-motion eyes that somehow always ended up out of sync. And she types– while maintaining the worst eye contact in interpersonal history– and then smiles, “Ah, right, not married.”

No, unfortunately the lord of the underworld already has a main squeeze, and she’s sizing me up over her wildly outdated eyewear right now.

All being painfully said and offensively done, she reviewed my coverage. I pay blah blah dollars, pre-tax, for this lack of coverage and that excuse for the company to not pay out, and if I’m hurt off the job well then wait and pretend I wasn’t. “Oh yes,” she adds as an afterthought, “your coverage starts May first, so be careful.”

“Heh,” says silly me, raising a scalding, wrought-iron stake and shoving it into the bear’s midriff, “guess I should push  back my doctor’s appointment that’s next week then, hey?”

First, silence. Did my joke flop?

No. It did worse.

“Yes, if you believe the appointment will end in a debilitating diagnosis it’s in your best interest to postpone until coverage is effective.”

It didn’t flop, it boomeranged back into my gut. I’m a god damn twenty-five year old woman who eats well, has a lackluster, irregular healthy exercise routine, doesn’t drink in excess (usually), and smiles all the freaking time. 

“I’m pretty sure I’ll be in the clear,” I grunt. And she, smiling even bigger yet somehow exuding a yet larger wall of disdain and foreboding, says, “Well I always say, better safe than sorry.”

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