A few weeks ago Charli was going through some old paperwork when suddenly she blurted out a stream of startled gibberish.
"Oh my god!... I'm not!... you're not!... I don't!... you don't!..."
I came running into the kitchen to see what all the stammering was about.
"Honey," she squeaked. "I don't have any life insurance out on you. YOU'RE NOT INSURED!!! If you were to die right now I'd have nothing!"
With all that excitement I was expecting something much more dramatic, like she had finally found out I was secretly married to another woman with 5 kids in Miami. But this paled in comparison.
"Huh... sucks to be you," I said nonchalantly as I opened the fridge in search of some pickles.
Apparently that wasn't a satisfactory answer because within 5 minutes she was on the phone with our insurance agent setting up an appointment for me "AS SOON AS POSSIBLE!"
"Really?" I whined. "Now I have to go to some stupid office downtown and answer a bazillion stupid questions and have a stupid exam... all so you can cash in on my untimely death? Sounds like a GREAT deal to me!"
Again... not a good answer. And after the speech about how our children were at risk that very moment of not being provided for, I was suddenly signed up to begin the process of becoming life-insured. Or death-insured - whichever way you want to look at it. Either way the whole concept boils down to nothing more than placing a bet that I'll expire before she does.
Not that the process isn't a total blast. I mean who doesn't like filling out reams of paperwork, answering ridiculously personal questions about your health, getting blood drawn, peeing in a cup (ok, that part was fun) and having an EKG done? I know I do!
But I suppose I should stop complaining, I know it's for the best. And of course my family will benefit should I suddenly get hit by a bus. Or fall down the stairs. Or choke on a turkey sandwich.
Or suffocate inexplicably while I'm sleeping.