I Need Insurance
Last week I had a dream in which my husband was sitting with a big cup of coffee – (which is realistic, but given this dream, it probably should have been a big martini) – and he said to me:
“Your body is looking so good this summer – you should go out and get a bikini.”
And I said,
“Are you kidding? I already have two bathing suits. We could never afford the insurance for three.”
Yeah – that’s what I said in this dream. I didn’t say, “Good Lord, I’m sixty-one” or “Absolutely” or even “You must be horny” – I said that we couldn’t afford the insurance for three bathing suits.
Swimsuit insurance is a crazy idea. Although I do remember back in college when a big wave ripped off one string from my string bikini.
But even though I don’t need swimsuit insurance, it got me to thinking about insurance I would like to have:
I wish I had insurance that would protect me against sending out query letters to literary agents that tout my novel but have a really stupid typo. And in case you think this is trivial… long ago, I had a job typing the channel guide in the infancy of cable tv and let me tell you – there is a big difference between ‘public access’ and ‘pubic access’.
I want a policy that will allow me to replace the english muffins that are not perfectly toasted. Or a toaster that won’t screw them up.
I want ketchup without a crust around the spout. I want mayonnaise that doesn’t look weirdly yellow when you get to the bottom of the jar. I want mustard that doesn’t pee on your sandwich before the mustard finally comes out.
I want a guarantee that I won’t get a run in my stocking at that big wedding. And it should not rain on my hair. AND I’m sixty-one, for God’s sake: I should be compensated generously if I have a pimple on the night of my class reunion.
Lots of people have travel insurance. I want some specific riders on my policy:
If I am driving, I want a gas station exactly when I need one, and a parking space when I finally get where I am going.
I want the clothes in my suitcase to come out the same way I put them in. I pack carefully. Where the hell do all the wrinkles come from?
I want a hotel room where the air conditioner doesn’t sound like the Concorde. And blinds that close all the way.
If I am flying, I want a guarantee that kid behind me won’t kick my seat. With a double jeopardy bonus clause once he hits it one thousand times.
I want protection against the inevitable and deliberate turbulence that hits just when I am in the restroom.