Talked to my buddy, and best man in my wedding last year, Thomas Jay (AKA Tom, TJ, T-45, TJ-Quick) last night. He is getting ready to tie the knot in October. His fiancé has been unemployed a little longer than I have, and recently suffered a nasty injury in which a horse knocked her down and stepped on her knee. That’s right. A horse. Stepped on her knee. With its hoof. A horse. Crushed it.
Medical bills? Oh yeah. It’s going to take months and months of rehabilitation, too. For someone who doesn’t have health insurance, you can’t even begin to imagine the amount of debt and financial strain you’ll be forced to endure. Now, luckily for her, she has the Cobra insurance coverage, whatever that is… something where you still can pay for your insurance for a while after you lose your job. So, good for her. She’ll be taken care of and will (hopefully) be able to get all the medical attention she needs.
But this whole situation got me a-thinkin’. What if a horse steps on my knee? I don’t have insurance right now. I’m not covered. My wife isn’t covered. Not right now. For the first time in my entire life, I don’t have some form of health insurance. I could be stepped on by Mr. Ed and have my whole financial future destroyed, not to mention having to settle for second-rate medical attention, if I’m even lucky to get ANY medical attention. Surgery? Yeah, you need it, but you can’t afford it, so… here are some crutches. Bye.
Scary stuff, people. I chopped a tomato this afternoon (for one of my exta-spectacular sandwich creations, The Kimmie Gibbler™, which consists of Tuna, American cheese, dill relish, onions and secret seasonings) and consciously tried to NOT CUT OFF MY FINGER. The fact is, I’m terrified of doing anything that has the potential to cause injury. Driving to the mall job? I’m like a little old lady out there on the roads. Really. I have to drive down a busy interstate in my Saturn Ion while all the suburban moms who can’t see over the steering wheel of their gigantic SUVs come barreling towards me and I think to myself, Dear Sweet Baby Jesus, please get me to the mall safely so I can sell these rich people khakis.
It’s like that with anything I do, and it’s getting worse. I’m even afraid to take the dog for a run because the last time I did, he jerked me awkwardly and twisted my back all funky. I’m fine – it only hurt for a little while, but back injuries are nasty – and costly. I don’t want to become a shut-in, but I really don’t want to risk becoming sick or injured. Maybe investing in bubble wrap and one of those Swine Flu masks would be cheaper in the long run. Or someone can hire me and these paranoid delusions of contracting Small Pox from the neighborhood pool will go away.
This is Day 65, folks. Staying away from horses. Wearing a face mask. Still making sandwiches named after second-banana sitcom characters. Also – I’m not going to be titling my posts Unemployed, Day [whatever] anymore. I’ll keep the running tally down at the bottom, if you’re really that interested.