With the apocalypse being only a day away Brian and I thought we should review our life insurance policies.
We crunched numbers, looked at pie charts, talked about savings plans, mutual funds, and short/long-term investments.
Get me to the part where I get money when a zombie eats Brian.
There was paperwork to fill out, t’s to cross, i’s to dot and the pressure to purchase more insurance than necessary was mounting. Thanks to my sharp wit, dangerous glare, and also a few threats daring him to cross me, the stress was quickly eased.
I may have also threatened him with an elbow to the chin.
Important information was necessary and Brian went first. I drifted off into a dream land where all the bills were paid (true he was now a zombie and had to be locked in the basement and fed raw steak and ground beef but we were happy).
My turn came. Name, drivers license, another form of ID, age, height, weight.
I says pardon?
We’re done here.
I was in the middle of telling insurance man to pack up and leave, of informing him that no amount of coverage, Day of Rapture or not, was worth my telling him TO HIS FACE what I weigh, when Brian came back in the room.
OH WOMEN, YOU KNOW WOMEN.
No, I don’t. I waited for them to enlighten me.
Let me tell you something about insurance men. They will wait you out.
Brian wouldn’t let me kick him out and I wasn’t telling my weight so that man just sat patiently and waited.
Well played my friend.
We now have coverage.
I think even zombies are smart enough to know they should never ask a woman her weight.