I noticed lately that I must have arrived? “Arrived where?” you ask. Well, I’ve arrived at yet another demographic level. When you get to my age bracket all kinds of things begin to change. There’s a definite divide widening between folks who want to sell you stuff…or not. For example, the folks in the pill industry, especially those who work in the aches and pains division, are eager to let you know they have the goods that’ll help you get along in your day-to-day activities over the next few years despite that axe wedged in your back between L3 and L4.
And that’s not all. Other friendly people, the ones who make things like walk-in bathtubs, hearing aids, back braces and those button gizmos you press when you’ve fallen and can’t get up—well all those guys and gals suddenly find you a fascinating person they’d like to know better. Meanwhile, the guys with the rock, the good hands and the ones who are on your side—you can start saying your goodbyes to them. They’re all sort of quietly leaving your party. You know, sneaking out the bathroom window and slithering down the drainpipe on the side of your house…they didn’t even come over to you to say goodnight.
I had this one life insurance policy for over twenty years before I noticed that the once irritating small print had taken growth hormones and blossomed into a major announcement which told me my annual premium would soon be changing from $650 to $20 some thousand. Yeah, you heard right—650 to 20 grand. See, what happens is, when you reach certain age brackets, the ones surrounded with flashing red lights, the insurance companies no longer want you on their rock or in their good hands and for sure they aren’t hanging around anymore on your side. I was lucky enough to find a new policy for only three times as much as my old one. But that one, too, will generate the same kind of explosive premium in two years. That’s when, in all likelihood, I will drop out of the insurance arena. But I am sure I won’t be left alone. Nosiree, at that point I will be pursued by the funeral industry because those folks don’t want me to suffer a loss in the number of my incoming sales solicitations.
One fascinating piece of breaking news that’s come out of all this is that I now know how many years longer I will be hanging around this computer. The other day an insurance agent spilled the beans. He told me how long I am expected to live, at least according to the statisticians in the insurance business. I would assume this information is pretty accurate. After all, they have real money, and lots of it, riding on their calculations. Now, assuming the equipment holds up and I don’t forget to look both ways before crossing, I have just under 14 years ahead of me. That about 5000 sun rises/sun sets yet to come. Hmm…I wonder how many more pints of Chucky Monkey there will be?