Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Too Late for Her Dumb Ass to Learn Why Froot Loops Are Not for Dinner (21 page)

The agent explains, “They used to call it ‘death insurance’ but that bummed everyone out.” Yeah, I could see that. Yet that’s
exactly what this is. As Fletch and I debate payout amounts, we eye one another warily, having come to the mutually horrific realization that we’re both more valuable dead than alive.

I tell the agent, “Of course Fletch should be taken care of if I kick it first, but I’m not sure I want my legacy to include a boat that sleeps twelve.” Fletch’s stipulation for me is that I can pay off the mortgage, but not have enough cash left over for the Jocelyn Wildenstein–level of plastic surgery I’d need to rope in a new mate. [
Granted, I’m mostly fine the way I am, but if I lose Fletch, I plan on going full-on cougar, so I’ll need a number of nips/tucks to attract Taylor Lautner.
]

There’s nothing like putting a price on your own mortality to make you reflect on your life. Yeah, I’m only in my early forties now, so it’s not like I’m just sitting on a plastic-covered couch by the front door with my purse in my lap, waiting for the clock to run out. However, the window for, say, auditioning for the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders has firmly closed. Unless of course I lose Fletch and go for the full Montag. Then I’d also have to learn to dance and embrace the pairing of boots with hot pants, so this may all be a nonissue.

Anyway, after our meeting where the core message is YOU ARE GOING TO DIE, I begin to wonder if I’m living life to the fullest. Sure, I’m happy, but I was a whole lot happier before I realized I’m putting a bounty on my own damn head.

Am I accomplishing everything I want? Maybe? My books have hit the bestseller lists [
Thank you for reading!! And did I tell you how pretty you look today?
] and I’ve sipped wine with Hoda and Kathie Lee on the
Today
show. (Try and guess which one I’m more proud of.) But in terms of milestones, I can’t come up with any and
my old goal of starting a Twitter war with a Kardashian seems a little juvenile now.

I wonder, do I need to create a bucket list? Do I need to spell out what I’d like to experience before I check out?

As I research other people’s bucket lists, I see that “Go on an African safari” is pretty popular. Sounds exotic, yes? I’d be fascinated to experience the cradle of civilization from atop an elephant. The minute Africa rids itself of all their venomous spiders, black mambas and puff adders, and automatic weapon–toting warlords, I’m sure my insurance company will be delighted to extend coverage while I visit.

Some bucket lists reflect a desire to be more active. I see entries about swimming the English Channel, [
Too cold.
] running a marathon, [
Too hard. And too many annoying marathon runners.
] or climbing Mount Everest. [
Too much carrying stuff and too much possibility for an avalanche and you just know I’m going to be the one everyone wants to eat.
] While I congratulate others for setting such lofty goals, I’m someone who will drive the fifty feet between Costco and Ulta rather than park somewhere in the middle so I can’t imagine I’d like to add anything particularly sweaty to my list.

Adventure factors high on a lot of bucket lists and it seems like everyone wants to skydive, run with the bulls in Pamplona, and swim with sharks.

Let’s break this down, shall we? Folks either want to voluntarily jump out of airplanes, take a jog in front of thousands of pounds of angry, charging bulls with nothing to protect themselves save for a bandanna and a pair of Air Nikes, or splash around with a bunch of creatures who have “man-eating” as part of their name?

Um, A)
you
are not James Bond, and B) is
everyone
desperate to nullify their insurance policies? Come on, people! Hazardous activities are not permissible under standard coverage! [
Please, I beg you to make sure the purveyor of such activities has liability coverage before you strap yourself to a bungee cord and take a leap of faith.
]

Also, you don’t think that sometime soon M plans to have a sit-down with one Bond, James Bond so they can renegotiate his long-term care coverage? That man is an actuarial nightmare and he’s costing the British taxpayers a mint!

What’s a shame is that I can’t put “not die” on my bucket list, but perhaps I can invite the insurance agent over again, because the hour we spent discussing net premium earnings truly felt like an entire lifetime.

I’ve tabled the thoughts of my bucket list because my more immediate concern is going through this stupid insurance physical. The only upside is when you opt for private insurance, they come to you, instead of vice versa. We’ve been sitting at our kitchen table for an hour with a nurse, recounting every single health-related detail of our combined eighty-plus years on earth. This wouldn’t be so bad except she hasn’t drawn samples yet so we can’t have coffee. [
As I’m always one step ahead of Fletch, I volunteer to go first.
]

For the most part, I’ve been a paragon of health with zero surgeries, actual diseases, [
Save for all the ones I self-diagnosed on WebMD.
] or broken bones, although more through a fluke of sturdy genetics, rather than decent planning or effort. I’ve only had one hospitalization and that was for pneumonia in
sixth grade. I didn’t even have to be admitted, but we were moving out of my dad’s little temporary apartment and into our first house in Indiana that week. Frankly, the whole hospital thing was easier from a logistical standpoint. Really, this shouldn’t even count and I tell the nurse as much.

However, her ears prick up when I mention that this summer my doctor thought I might have a pulmonary embolism. I was just off of twenty-one days of consecutive flights and I had tightness in my chest. Turns out it wasn’t a blood clot at all. Rather, everything was stress-related due to trying to buy a house and move, but we didn’t know for sure until I was tested.

The nurse consults her chart. “You had an MRI?”

“Yep,” I reply. “The doctor didn’t like my d-bagger levels—”

“Jen, I think it’s D-dimer,” Fletch interrupts with a smirk.

I glower at him from across the table. “Oh, you’re helpful
now
. But on the day that the doctor said I needed an MRI immediately,
you
made us stop for coffee first. I might have been DYING but
you
needed an iced latte.”

He shrugs. “Please, Starbucks was in the lobby of the professional building. We had to pass right by it to get to the car! And Dr. Z’s an alarmist. She humors you by checking for everything, or do you not remember the parasite incident? [
Don’t ask.
] You were fine and on the slim, slim chance you weren’t, I figured we’d be at the hospital for a long time and then I’d really be wishing I had coffee.”

I tap the table with my index finger. “Please make a note in his chart that my husband is a jerk. Also, he’s addicted to caffeine.”

The nurse scratches more notes on her pad. “So this happened in June?”

I shoot Fletch another look. “Yes.”

“What was the date of your last mammogram?”

I shift in my seat. “Never?”

“You’ve never had a mammogram?”

“No.”

“Even a baseline reading?”

“No.”

She peers at me from over the top of her paperwork. “Why not?”

Um, the same reason I didn’t pay State of Illinois taxes back when I was unemployed? Because it seemed annoying and definitely not something I’d enjoy doing? Because I was behaving like a child? Because doing so seemed unpleasant and in weighing risk versus reward, procrastination came out the winner?

None of these seem like answers that should go in my permanent record, so I tell her I’ll schedule one immediately. Then she draws my blood and I pee in a cup, followed immediately by washing my hands and starting the coffeemaker.

While Fletch does his interview, I sit across from him and remark about how particularly rich, smoky, and delicious the coffee tastes today.

Iced latte, indeed.

Scheduling my mammogram takes all of two minutes.

That is, after eight months of putting it off.

I know, I know, but I’m here now, okay?

I made the appointment yesterday for the first thing this
morning so I wouldn’t have the chance to chicken out or get distracted again for three seasons.

I check in at the Women’s Center in the Lake Forest Hospital and the first thing I see is the plaque with John Hughes’s and his wife Nancy’s names on it. Seeing his name in this community makes me so happy that I forget to be nervous. First, John Hughes helps me make sense of high school and now he’s here to make sure I don’t freak out at this very adult experience? Sir, your legacy lives on.

Anyway, the only downside so far is that I can’t wear perfume, deodorant, or powder, but I’ve got all of the above in my purse and can put them on the second I’ve finished. From what I’ve been told, the mammogram isn’t painful so much as it is uncomfortable. [
I bet it’s less of a pain in the ass than the whole-body MRI with that weird vein dye they inject that makes you feel like you’ve just wet your pants.
]

I change into my gown and exit to a waiting area that’s full of coffee fixings and Quaker Chewy Granola Bars. But before I can choose between chocolate chip and peanut butter chocolate chip, I’m whisked down the hallway into the mammogram room.

The tech explains how I’m supposed to stand while the big plastic plates clamp me into place. As I remove my gown and the tech guides me into position, I realize what a prime opportunity this is.

“Excuse me, since we’re here, can you please take a moment and look at this contrast? Like, as a medical professional?” I point to the white part of my side boob, holding up a forearm whose color can best be described as Rich Corinthian Leather. “I mean, I have the best tan of my life and outside of my husband, no one
ever sees me with my shirt off so they don’t understand how naturally pasty I really am.
This
is a tan.”

The tech nods. “That
is
impressive.”

“Thank you. You may proceed.”

The process… is not comfortable. Actually, it sucks. The act of turning each appendage into a pancake is like the worst purple nurple ever, but it’s only twenty seconds per pose and I imagine it’s a lot better than breast cancer. My friend Stacey says when she goes in, they have to switch to the big plates so I feel it’s a minor victory when I only have to use the regular ones.

I clock the whole procedure from entry to exit and I’m back in my car twenty minutes after I arrive. I’d have been here a minute sooner, but I was pawing through the granola bars.

I have to admit, out of everything I’ve done so far,
this
feels like the most adult decision I’ve made in my life and the process was remarkably easy. The gearing up for it was hard, but now that it’s done I’m kicking myself for resisting for so long.

What I’m learning is the process of becoming a fully fledged grown-up isn’t anything like I imagined as a kid, but each step I’ve taken has been a necessary one. Nothing that I’ve done has been glamorous, yet there’s comfort in knowing that even James Bond gets his prostate checked.

T
here’s an expression that goes, “A friend will help you move. A good friend will help you move a body.”

I’m exceptionally fortunate to have a group of girls [
Doesn’t matter if we’re over forty—we can call ourselves girls if we want.
] in my life that would absolutely help me move a body. Of course, Stacey wouldn’t move it herself, but she’d give me the name of a guy who moves bodies for a reasonable fee and has tons of excellent references and in fact, did I know he used to move bodies for Sammy “the Bull” Gravano? [
Quoth Stacey: “We’re Jews. We have a guy for everything.”
] And after the guy and I are done moving the body, she’ll happily provide tea and cake at her place so we can do a conversational postmortem on who needed a killing in the first place.