Life's Little Annoyances

So my husband decided to take out a new insurance policy on me.

No, I don't think he's plotting anything. In his words, he's "trying to be prudent."

If you've ever dealt with life insurance policies, you'll know that one of the hurdles to overcome is a patently annoying, come-to-your-doorstep meeting with a local rent-a-nurse for a blood draw and questions about your health and/or penchant for deviant or death-defying behavior.

This morning, I had one of those. A blood draw, that is. It's just the way I wanted to begin my Tuesday morning.

I've been through this before. The first time, it couldn't help but strike me that the nurse at my front door -- the one who was hired to uncover any hidden health problems I might have -- was morbidly obese. By the time she'd walked the twenty paces to my kitchen table, she was completely winded. I felt like I should have been the one taking her pulse, and not the other way around.

In short, she was, without doubt, completely uninsurable.

Fast forward to this morning. I was already feeling annoyed because a) I couldn't have any coffee; b) I couldn't eat breakfast; c) I couldn't have any coffee; d) I had to put my entire morning on hold for a stupid 8:30 appointment in my kitchen; e) I couldn't have any coffee. Add to that the breakfast bread that decided not to rise and the fact that we were inexplicably out of butter, and I wasn't feeling too chipper.

And, too, I already had a distinct prejudice against Nancy, the rent-a-nurse who was on her way. Upon having spoken with her the night before, I discerned an unmistakable smoker's voice. In other words, it was completely shot -- as in, I could have auditioned for the part of Gollum but I was too busy sticking people with needles shot. I fully expected her to be overweight, diabetic, and addicted to hang gliding.

But Nancy arrived thin and nicely dressed, breathing normally and pupils not dilated. Of course, she still sounded as though she ate lit cigarettes for dinner, but I chose to overlook that in the hope that our little kitchen table meeting would be professional and, well, painless.

Because needles don't really bother me. Having to wait for my coffee is much worse than a needle.

To be fair to Nancy, she was friendly, accommodating, and halfway intelligent, the latter not always a given in these instances. She asked the (silly) questions and made me sign the (silly) forms, and she took two vials of blood without causing me the slightest bit of pain. I marvel at nurses who can do this. Seriously. No pain.

And then came the part I wasn't ready for. She wanted me to pee in a cup.

Normally, this isn't a problem. I drink a lot of water and I pee a lot. Except, I had just gone to the bathroom five minutes before Nancy arrived.

Oops.

I wasn't going to tell her that, of course. Especially after she took the time to demonstrate her special "squeeze the cup" technique for avoiding urine spills whilst pouring, and to hand me a latex glove to protect my gentile hand from pee splatters.

Golly, I was all set.

My bladder, on the other hand, wasn't. After squeaking out just enough urine to fill one of the small tubes, I returned to Nancy and sheepishly explained that I didn't have enough pee for the other tube.

"I'll just drink some water, though, and try again in a minute." I guzzled some water while Nancy watched, and felt utterly ridiculous. I mean, what human can will himself to urinate less than five minutes after emptying his bladder?

I made as much small talk as I could, all the while painfully aware that Nancy and I were both waiting for a signal from my recalcitrant bladder. Then I announced that I was ready to try again. I'm sure Nancy was ecstatic.

"Now, run some water in there," she said. "That always helps you go, you know? When that water's running."

Do tell.

Despite the fact that I have never found a correlation between running water and peeing, I turned on the tap so that Nancy could hear me taking her advice (and not hear me trying to pee). It was a grand effort. Really, it was. In the end, I came out with less than half an inch in the tube. I was sure that I'd failed.

"Policy denied. Reason: Failure to urinate."

But no! Nancy declared that there was plenty of pee in the little tube. She gathered up all my labeled bodily fluids and extended her hand for a farewell shake (that explained the glove). I don't think Nancy cared one fig about how much pee was in the container at that point. She was happy to take what droplets she was offered and leave.

Bye-bye, Nancy. Hello, coffee.

If this insurance policy isn't approved, I'm going to pee on someone's desk.