Thanks to the onslaught of 30-something anxiety regarding the inevitability of death, Alex and I now have life insurance. I’m told this is an important part of every marriage, but it feels more like a really good way to ruin everything. I can’t imagine any other circumstance where we’d end up sitting on opposite ends of the couch at midnight on a Tuesday, with me yelling:
“And then I’m going to be a 42-year-old widow who can’t afford Spotify Premium and our children will never go to college.”
Let’s not forget, we don’t even have children. But even though they don’t exist yet, they are still very good points to make in an argument. Especially if you decide you’re probably going to have triplets.
When sheister-y insurance sales people talk to you about your life, you start thinking of all the what-ifs and future selves you might become. And there is lots of math involved:
“You will need your salary X however many years you want your spouse and children to not have to live in a box, eating out of trashcans.”
“You don’t want to saddle your loved ones with all your unpaid debt, do you?”
I tried to explain that my only debt is in the currency of sexual favors for all those times Alex lets me wait in the car because I can’t bear the weight of human interaction.
“Well, sure. But think of all the future debt you’ll incur. A house, newer cars, you’ll have to furnish that house, things happen, one of you might become ill, you might even become uninsurable, honestly THERE IS A VERY GOOD CHANCE YOU WILL DIE TOMORROW.” [Read more…]
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