Tuesday was a true day in paradise…almost. First thing in the morning, I went to yoga at the Hawaiian Sanctuary, where the name speaks for itself. In the late afternoon, we drove to Keaau where we signed up for taiko drumming lessons, something we’d both wanted to do for years. It doesn’t hurt at all that the lessons take place in a Buddhist temple.
Yes, I get the irony that we had to move to Hawaii to study Japanese drumming. It’s the same irony by which Lava Tree State Park is closed due to lava. Life’s little quirks are what make it worth living.
In between yoga bliss and drumming delights, though, was an endless phone call with health insurance people, or at least that’s what they called themselves.
I was nervous about this, having heard what a nightmare healthcare has become in the States, and knowing I was spoiled by my Japan’s socialized medicine system. But the rate they offered was just expensive enough to seem legitimate and yet not outrageous. As I sat there answering questions, giving away personal information, I had an inkling that I was being scammed but was unable to do anything about it, like slowing down to look at a wreck on the highway. Unfortunately, I was the wreck. Nobody wants to admit they’re being scammed; on some level we believe that makes us stupid. I got passed along from Kind Keri to Gentle Jimmy, feeling more and more stupid as time passed and when I finally started to object, they switched me to Chris the Dickhead.
Chris: I’m sorry this is so confusing for you.
Me: I’m not confused at all. You keep contradicting what Keri and Jimmy said.
Chris: Yes, I understand that you’re confused.
Me: Stop being so condescending. You’re the one who doesn’t have his story straight.
Chris: I’m not being condescending.
(“I’m not hungry,” said the Big Bad Wolf as he swallowed Little Red Riding Hood.)
Me: Fine. But you’re not making any sense, either.
Chris: Sweetie, if you would like me to explain it again, I’d be happy to.
Me: Did you just call me ‘sweetie’?
If it had been my grandmother who said that, or even YOUR grandmother, it might have been all right, but instead it was a nasty, knuckle-dragging, kindergarten drop-out who had decided that bullying was the way to get me to agree to this policy. I was incensed and therefore grateful when he switched me back to Gentle Jimmy. I suppose that’s all part of the strategy. These people know what they’re doing.
By the time I got back from drumming and read the documents and did some online research and gradually realized how completely I’d been taken in, it was too late to call them and argue. It didn’t matter, though. The damage had been done and I knew I would have to do some fancy footwork to get out of it. That meant getting up early to call my bank where I cancelled my debit card and then call the fake insurance people who cancelled the policy, or so they said. The phone rang and rang but nobody ever answered at the number they told me to call to confirm my refund.
Exhausted, I stared at the ceiling and tried to understand what had happened. Basically, they said I qualify for a good rate because I am healthy, unlikely to need drug or alcohol abuse treatment nor have babies, which means I wouldn’t be needing to use the insurance, which only covers preventive testing anyway. So that means they wanted me to pay more than $300 a month to NOT get hurt or sick. In other words, I would be paying for being healthy. In yet other words, I would be paying for something I already own.
Lesson one: If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.
Lesson two: All future telemarketers who want to sell me insurance will be informed that I am Amish and therefore do not own a car and do not believe in insurance*; they’re probably too stupid to realize that I don’t have a phone, either.
*Kudos to the brilliant mind of Joyce Watkins Gardner for this one.
Big Island Mouse 