Getting the Wife’s Permission to Live
Inbox Roulette
Yesterday’s anesthesia fog hadn’t lifted when my email lit up with the ultimate “We’ve been trying to reach you” pitch: burial insurance.
Perfect timing, right? Fresh stitches, a pain pump still humming, and now someone wants me to price out my exit strategy.
After twenty years of outliving doom-and-gloom forecasts—including a doctor who once stamped my warranty “expires in 24 months”—I can’t help but laugh. But Evidently , the Grim Repear’s repo team can’t pry me loose.
- I’m wedged tighter than a sofa in a spiral staircase.
- I’m harder to tow away than a double-parked food truck at lunchtime.
- I’m the medical version of an unpaid student loan—impossible to write off.
- I’m tougher to foreclose on than Graceland.
- I’m stickier than duct tape on a summer dashboard—good luck prying me off this planet.
Pain, Play & Premiums
Yes, that latest procedure had me briefly bargaining with the Reaper for an early checkout. But a crack team of nurses yanked me back from the light (and the hospital cafeteria). Pain gone—for now—sales pitch foiled again.
My wife, the household CFO, remains unmoved. She insists I need way more coverage before checking off what’s left on my bucket list: drag-racing, sky-diving, maybe riding a bull named Heart Failure. She claims she’s protecting our nest egg; I suspect she’s protecting me from myself.
Malignant Maybe’s & Mortgage-Sized Policies
The scans did toss in a few curveballs—suspicious bone lesions, a rhythm-challenged heart—so burial insurance might deserve a peek. If the numbers satisfy my CFO-for-life, perhaps she’ll green-light the hair-on-fire grand finale:
Break Mach 1 in a borrowed dragster → eject in mid-scream → free-fall into a barbecue → land with enough policy left to buy a squeak-free pine box.
Everybody wins—especially the undertaker.
The Real Policy
Until then, here’s the only clause I live by:
Choose Joy—daily, aggressively, shamelessly.
Whether the roulette ball lands on double zero or spins me one more lucky lap, joy is the premium that’s always paid in full. So here’s to stubborn hearts, inbox reality checks, and finishing the bucket list with a grin—and yes, hair on fire.
