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Research has shown that the leading cause of gun violence among persons about to turn 65 is people trying to sell them Medicare supplement insurance.
I reach that milestone today, an age where expectations go to die. Yet I cling to one hope, that now that I have reached 65 those calls will cease as quickly and mysteriously as they commenced almost a year ago.
As I get older, there have been years when my birthday approached, and I had to briefly pause to think how old I would be: Is it 61? Or 62? It’s kind of like splitting hairs. There is nothing you are allowed to do at 62 that you can’t do at 61. There are no discounts for acquiring 62 years, either. No one is more inclined to excuse bad behavior on the account that you have become 62.
But you know it when you are approaching 65 mainly because that’s the year you sign up for Medicare. The moment you sign up, people who sell Medicare supplement policies know this somehow, and they are on you like a Red State politician on a transgendered softball player.
I don’t know how many people sell Medicare supplement insurance for a living, but I do know how many of them have called me over the past year: 6,174.
For 12 months now, hanging up on these people as soon as politely possible after they mention the magic word “Medicare” has been part of my daily routine.
In fact, when a day goes by without hearing from one or more of these people, I begin to worry that something is terribly wrong. Perhaps they have discovered that I have a serious medical condition that makes selling me a policy unprofitable. That’s not an irrational fear since they are as likely to know that as they are to know my phone number. I do not recall ever having given any of those people my number. Nevertheless, these people know my age and how to reach me on the phone and, yes, my mailing address. My mailbox hasn’t been empty in almost a year.
It has gotten to the point that when I see an unfamiliar number on an incoming call, I’m relieved when it turns out to be a helpful reminder that my car warranty is about to expire.
The other thing about all these calls is that it’s an attack on my character. I have my flaws and shortcomings. I’m no godlike entity like Donald Trump, but I’ve always tried to be an honest person. I tell the truth mostly. Then why is it that there are 6,174 people in the Medicare supplement insurance business who are convinced I’m lying when I say I am satisfied with my health insurance? I say it plainly on Monday, but on Tuesday they call again. They are never convinced.
I imagine that after work each day, they gather at a watering hole and talk about their day.
“Has Slim finally come clean?”
“No. He’s still in denial, but we can’t give up!”
Apart from that, turning 65 isn’t all that bad.
It is, after all, the age that you are fully vested in senior citizen discounts. There are no additional financial incentives for turning 66 or 71 or 80, although that’s changing. Right now, you have to be 67 to get the maximum Social Security benefits, for example. As long as people vote for Republicans – the party that decided it would be a wonderful idea to tax Social Security benefits – those goal posts are likely to keep moving.
That’s hardly something to look forward to, though.
It is said that people often become cynical, even pessimistic, as they age, but I am trying to hang on to my youthful optimism.
That is why I retain the hope that today, now that I have turned 65, the Medicare supplement insurance sales staff will abandon the chase, sort of like the cat who discovers that the mouse he has been toying with has slipped into some crevice to freedom and turns his attention to some other mouse who may not have the rodent equivalent to Medicare supplement insurance.
I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
Happy Birthday to me, I hope.
Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].
Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].
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