The health assessor from the big insurance company showed up in a shiny new Infiniti coupe. It was her job to administer the tests that would determine whether it was possible for me to upgrade to a “better” policy. You know, “better” means you get to pay more in premiums so that when you die, the folks you leave behind will get more cash.

Life insurance they call it. But if we were being honest, we would call it death insurance. Life is full of such euphemisms.

But of course most policyholders would not like to buy death insurance. It sounds too much like a guarantee. Even though it is.

So we call it life insurance and probably pay a whole lot more as a result. Call it the ‘feelgood’ percentage of the premium.

Then we put up with all sorts of health tests and other semantics when all we’re really doing is throwing money down the drain in hopes that we happen to die in a timely way that will benefit our spouse, kids or grandkids.

Ancient Mesopotamians line up for an insurance health screening

But of course death is never timely. Ever. It just is. What it is.

Of course you can’t kill yourself and expect your loved ones to collect the life insurance money. That’s called cheating. Or insurance fraud. Can’t recall which. But there’s also another word for it. Suicide. The Big Disqualifier.

But your life insurance still counts if you happen to be running or riding along the highway and a big old SUV swerves to avoid another crazy driver and strikes you dead,  spilling your brains and guts on the road. Road kill. Then you will get your insurance check. Or your loved ones will. And, they can probably sue a driver or two as well, and get even more money. Death seems to be all about the money. Which is why newspapers charge for obituaries. As with life insurance, it’s the fine print that ultimately counts.

But is it really all about money, this life insurance game? You’d really never know that from the way they treat you when they come to your house to test your health. They hook you up to an EKG machine and you’re supposed to breathe real smooth for a few minutes. Then it prints out your heart rate and they make you sign the printout on the spot. It’s all very daunting and official. How alive are you, really? Yes, we know your heart is beating. But how well? How often? Doesn’t it look a little rushed right here? That was when you were holding in a fart? Okay, we’ll let you off this time. Note to self: Eat less fiber before next life insurance test.

They take a sample of your blood, then ask you tons of questions about every disease and bad habit under the sun. Have you had? Cancer. Diabetes. Stroke. Anxiety. Toenail fungus.

I made that last one up. But I hid my toenails from the Infiniti lady, just the same. My dad has the same problem. Is toenail fungus hereditary? She didn’t ask that. Cause I hid them.

The Infiniti lady was rather tall and willowy, which is something of a distraction when you’re trying to keep your cool during a life insurance inspection. A nurse by profession, the Infiniti lady’s real job is to act as an onsite actuary. She collects statistics that determine how much you are going to pay for your upgraded life insurance. I was glad she did not put on a glove and ask me to bend over.

We actually did have some fun kidding around, the Infiniti lady and I. After answering no to every disease question on the sheet, I smiled and said, “Pretty good, huh?”

“Is there anything wrong with you?” she joked.

“I have a bad sense of humor sometimes. Some people consider that a disease.”

“Right,” she said. “Now take off your shirt.”

It is a strange experience to be stripping down in your own living room with a willowy woman watching you get half naked. On this occasion it was best to resist any unwitty jokes about the wife coming home. She’s already heard it all. Blah blah blah.

Men.

When it was all through the Infiniti lady packed up her little black briefcase with a heart-testing load of gear along with stacks of paper, and she said “Thanks, you’ve made this very easy.”

Well, I try anyway.

Weeks later the report came in the mail stating that my overall health status places me in the top 2% of all adult males over 50 in the country. Yay! And Hey, that’s pretty good I thought! Maybe my rates will be really low, like they say in the commercials. “You can get half a million in life insurance for just $24 a month.”

No such luck. It costs me about $74 a month for only $250K. Insurance companies lie. Through their teeth. It’s a real bait and switch job, this life insurance racket. Probably they’ll pay out my death benefits in Green Stamps. “He was kind of old,” they’d say to my kids. “Some of his premiums were paid even before the Internet was born.”

I’m 50+ but I run 25 miles a week and cycle an average of 3000 miles a year. My resting heart rate is under 50 BPM (they tested it themselves, remember) and my BP is 116 over 76 or something on that order. I stand 6″1″ and 167 lbs. Can still run a 6:00 mile. Only my beer-drinking capability has diminished some. But that should count on the good side of the ledger.

All those goods signs and the best I can do is $74 a month for a quarter million in insurance?

That sucks.

I eat well. Except for the cookies and chocolate now and then. Hence the mild layer of chub just above my hips. But when I stand up straight that goes away.  It really does. And you can’t really see it under my cycling kit or running clothes. So that shouldn’t count against me.

Unless the Infiniti lady wrote down some cryptic note like; “Mild Spare Tire. Add $25.”

But how do you not feel like you are getting ripped off if your health ratings places you in the Top 2% of your age group and the rates you pay still don’t match up with those crummy commercials promising low rates for people in good health, or even bad health? The whole system seems to suck, and the insurance companies are literally drowning in money it seems.

I hate f’n Snoopy now. Charlie Brown as well. Stupid cartoon characters lie to you too.

It’s not worth much being in the Top 2% of your age group health ratings, I’ll tell you.

Of course if I was 6’1″ and 256 lbs. I might be paying three times as much.

That makes it worth getting up at 6:00 a.m. to run or ride, I suppose.

But I’m not giving up the chocolate. Just the cookies. And the mild spare tire.

We Run and Ride. It’s a movement.