Despite my best wishes for the prosperity of the major health insurance carriers, they don’t return the sentiment. In fact, they seem to be wishing me a lifetime of living under a bridge and eating the Spam that nobody else wants (which pretty much includes all the free world’s supply of this tasty mystery meat product).

October was the month for open enrollment to my husband’s health insurance plan at work. I was wondering at the time why the brochure showed a picture of a doctor performing a proctology exam. They pixilated the part where the guy was taking it up the butt, but you could see in his eyes that he would rather be skinny dipping with piranha at that moment.

I had the same look in my eyes when I learned that we would be paying double in premiums for a deductible six times as much as the cost of repairs if we crashed our car into an oncoming commuter train. The answer is obvious: I’ll just have my mechanic perform my annual breast exam.

Yesterday, the reality of the situation came crashing home when I went to pick up a prescription. Thirty pills the size of a pregnant flea were going to cost me $537 and change. I would have had an aneurysm on the spot, except that I couldn’t afford it. The alternative is to skip the pills and allow myself to slip into a crippling depression. Hmmm, let me think.

I guess I’m going to have to treat myself for many of the bumps and bruises that life brings. Mom had a magical ointment that she used for most every cut and scrape. It wasn’t until I was fifty that I found said ointment and read the label. It was hemorrhoid cream. Mom had a sick sense of humor.

Mom’s other favorite cure for life’s ailments was the enema. I can either self-medicate or pay the damn deductible. Either way, I’m going to take it up the butt.