On the Horizon

Usually I don't pay much heed to weather predictions.  More often than not, weather forecasting is like reading the National Enquirer - a lot of hyperbole. But the storm that's supposedly on its way through the midwest starting tomorrow night sounds like a doozy, and has me quaking in my proverbial boots.  Over 15 inches of snow is expected, and that's a whole lot more snow than we've seen at one time here in over  35 years.  As a matter of fact, they're comparing it to the blizzard of 1974, one I recall rather well, although I was just a teenager at the time.  It's impact on me was purely self-centered.  All I cared about was that it meant my boyfriend couldn't get home from college to see me, so another endlessly long week would go by before we could be together!

Now that I'm older, my biggest fear about snowstorms (other than having to drive in them, which I've already made sure I won't have to do this time) is losing electricity.  One of the downsides of living on the same street as my 83 year old mother is that if one of us loses power, we both do.  So there's no safe haven.  She's particularly vulnerable to cold and ice, and the last thing she needs is a fall or to catch a bad cold.

But as long as the voltage holds out, we should be okay.

In fact, I rather enjoy an excuse to hunker in for a couple of days, maybe put a pot of soup on to simmer, drink hot cocoa in between rounds of shoveling, and read, read, read.

How about you?  What do you like to do on snow days?

Pamper Me Not

I've been assiduously avoiding the mirror all day today.  I didn't bother doing my hair or putting on makeup, and I'm wearing a particularly unflattering pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt emblazoned with a logo created by a 10 year old member of the children's choir I accompanied back in 2002.  I pity my poor husband, who had to look at me all afternoon.  Lucky for him,  he was dozing blissfully unaware each time I walked past him. I felt particularly guilty about my state of personal disrepair when I read the chapter in Tracey Jackson's new book (Between a Rock and a Hot Place: Why Fifty is Not the New Thirty) about cosmetic surgery.  Granted, Ms. Jackson is a Hollywood screenwriter and moves in the kind of circles where it's important to look your absolute best.  But she pursues looking good with quite a vengeance, one I certainly don't have the fortitude to undertake.  First off, I'm much too paranoid about medical procedures to ever undergo plastic surgery.  And the idea of somebody sticking needles into my face sends me into spasms of dread.

My other problem - and I know I'm in the minority among women here - is that I just don't like the whole "pampering" routine.  I don't enjoy the salon experience, I think massages are kind of creepy, and I have no patience with complicated beauty regimens.

I finally started coloring my hair about five years ago, but after one particularly horrific experience I have to indulge in some dutch courage each time I go in for a repeat performance.  And it's becoming necessary to undergo that ordeal more and more often, as the gray hairs have been sprouting faster than you can say "does she or doesn't she?" (Of course she does.)  About that same time, a stylist convinced me to have my eyebrows waxed.  I was perfectly happy with my eyebrows until I saw how much nicer they looked after they were arched so perfectly.  Now I'm stuck with going in every three weeks.

I think the bottom line is that I don't like people touching me. For instance, the whole massage thing, with the dark room and the fey music and the trickling water fountain that just makes me want to go to the bathroom, and then some stranger rubbing  lotion all over my body - ick.

I do sort of enjoy facials, partly because I love the young woman I go to.  It's unfortunate that she works in Florida, but I make a point of having a facial once or twice a year when I'm down there, and we have a lovely visit.  She's worked in a number of spas, where I have also had manicures and pedicures and massages (sigh),  but she has her own business now, so if you're ever in Ft. Myers and would like a facial, look her up and tell her I sent you.

It's funny, because I like to look good, I really do.  I just don't like all the rigmarole that goes along with it.  If you want to pamper me, set me down in comfy lounge chair by the beach with a stack of books and a bottle of wine.

I'll be downright radiant, I promise you.

How about you?  Do you enjoy a special beauty routine?  Or do you have a different idea about being pampered?

Sadder than SAD

I'm sad.  With a capital S-A-D.  As in Seasonal Affective Disorder. The cynical part of me is sneering right now. "Don't tell me you're buying in to that disease of the day crap," it's saying.

My conscience is scolding me.  "Get off your duff and do something productive.  That'll cure your sadness."

My left brain is advising me.  "If you're really worried about this, investigate ways to get some light into your life."

But my right brain seems to be winning out over all these other voices.  "Go back to bed with a heating pad, blanket, and book.  Take two dogs for company.  Drink hot cocoa and come out in May."

I'm tempted to scoff at SAD, but I think I've fallen victim to it this winter.  It's one of the darkest winters on record, and I haven't seen the sun here in nigh on two weeks.  We've had some amount of snow every day this week.  The other day I cried half the way to work.  Right now, I'm summoning up all my strength to get out of the house and go to the library, a place I usually need no encouragement to go.

Last night I was talking to a friend of mine, one of the most practical, down to earth women I know.  She always amazes me with her vigor and physical strength.  "I haven't been out of my room all week," she told me last night.  "I haven't even washed the dishes since Sunday."

"What's the matter?" I asked, aghast.

"It's SAD," she replied matter of factly.  "This is the worst winter I can remember."

"What can you do about it?" I inquired.

"Wait until spring, I guess."

My left brain doesn't want to accept that answer.  It sends me directly to my favorite on line medical site, who concurs with my own opinion.

Don't brush off that yearly feeling as simply a case of the "winter blues" or a seasonal funk that you have to tough out on your own — you may have seasonal affective disorder. Treatment for seasonal affective disorder includes light therapy (phototherapy), psychotherapy and medications.

Apparently you can go out and buy ultraviolet light to enjoy in the privacy of your own home.  Imagine that...all it takes is money, and you can have a little sunshine any time of the day or night.

Of course, this is when I start to think about my house in Florida - the Sunshine State, right? - that's sitting there empty and waiting for me.  It's such an obvious solution, but one that eludes me year after year.  Next year, I tell myself every winter, a refrain that echoes the sentiment expressed by Jews the world over - "Next year in Jerusalem."

It seems to be my own version of The Impossible Dream.

And that makes me sadder than anything.

Challenged

Today is another one of those "where were you when" days ~ the ones my generation like to ponder with a sentimentality which increases with the passing of years.   This particular anniversary - of the explosion of the space shuttle Challenger - has perhaps paled in significance when compared with our more recent penultimate national tragedy.  But because today is the quarter century anniversary of that horrific event, it's gotten more press than usual. So where was I on that day?  I was in the office of our local cystic fibrosis foundation, stuffing envelopes.  I'd decided to do some volunteer work, and I'm not sure how I happened to choose working for the CFF, but I'd been going there once a week since my son started kindergarten that fall.  I remember I was addressing thank you cards for memorial gifts - addressing them by hand, mind you, because there were  no computers in those days, and the lone typewriter was reserved for the director's secretary.  Besides that, I think it was felt that a hand addressed note was more personal.  And I had nice handwriting, so the job fell to me.

Someone  in the office  heard the news on the radio, alerted the rest of us, and we gathered around a small television that appeared from somewhere.  We stood there transfixed, watching the endless replays as the shuttle rose into the clear blue sky (why does the sky always seem so perfectly blue on these days of national tragedy?) and then suddenly become nothing but billows of white smoke you could almost have mistaken for the fluffy white clouds that would be typical on a winter morning in Florida.

While I watched this tragedy unfold on a tiny screen, it occurred to me that my parents-in-law were most likely seeing it happen in person.  At that time, they spent the winters in a small condo on Cocoa Beach, just a few miles away from Cape Canaveral,  and the residents routinely took their lawn chairs out into the front lawn to watch the frequent shuttle launches.   Because it was 1985 and I couldn't whip out my cell phone to call them, I had to wait until I got home that afternoon to hear their reaction.

"It was just the most awful thing I ever saw in my life," my mother in law said. "Seeing that rocket ship go up there like they always do, and then suddenly - nothing but smoke!  We all knew something terrible had happened.  But we couldn't believe it would just blow up like that, with not a trace left."   Although neither of them ever spoke about it to us again, they sold their place in Florida soon afterward, and never watched another space launch in person or on television.

Those kinds of tragic occurrences, the loss of life, the failure of technology, are humbling to say the least.  They make us recognize not only our mortality and the insecurity of life in general, but also the fallibility of our dreams.  One false move, one unchecked statistic, one faulty part, and everything we hold dear goes up in smoke.

It makes life challenging, that's for sure.

Insured

One of the scarier things about being self-employed is the necessity to be self-insured.  For all of our adult lives, we've had health care coverage provided by our employer.  In recent years, we contributed to the cost, but it was fairly nominal, and the benefits were comprehensive and very good. After my husband lost his corporate job in July 2009, he started his own business in order to work as a contractor, and we had government subsidized COBRA coverage (thank you federal government for something) until October 2010.  At that point, we had to pay full price to maintain our coverage - $1,192.36 per month - until January 1, 2011, when the COBRA coverage would no longer be available to us at any price.

So last month, we initiated the process of getting independent health care through Blue Cross Blue Shield, the provider we've had for lo these many years.

Welcome to the real world.

Yes, BCBS does often independent health care plans.  Yes, we qualify to convert directly from a group to individual plan.  But none of the plans provide anywhere near the kind of coverage we got in the big company group plan.  The deductibles are triple and quadruple what we've been paying, the out of pocket maximums 10 times what we've had in the past.

Youch.

The whole thing necessitated a sea change in the way we look at insurance.  The only difference in each of the three individual plans offered by "Big Blue" was the annual deductible.  All other coverages stayed the same - except, of course, for the monthly premium.  For instance (and forgive me for all this detail, but there's really no way to even talk about insurance without going into some amount of excrutiatingly boring detail) we could get a $1500 annual deductible for $1,110/month; a $2500 deductible for $750/month; or a $5000 deductible for $450/month.

Our first thought was "$5000 deductible?? No way!!"  But then we started doing the math.  If we chose the $1500 deductible plan, we'd end up paying Blue an extra $500 per month in premium costs alone.  Over the course of 12 months, we've already paid them $6000.  Why not keep that money in our own pocket until we need to use it?  Maybe we'll continue to be lucky, and our medical costs will be minimal.  But if not, that $5000 will be in our bank account instead of the fat coffers of the insurance company.

Our generation was one of the first that grew up with health care, and we've certainly gotten used to going to doctors whenever we needed to without worrying about how to pay for it.  Luckily, we've never needed to use our benefits for much.  In the past five years, I've probably been in a doctor's office less than a dozen times.  I think one of the problems with insurance is that, over time, it lulls you into a false sense of entitlement.  I know lots and lots of people- particularly elderly people- who dash into the doctor at every little twinge.  If they had to hand over a $100 bill each time they went in, I suspect they might think twice about it.

I'm no fan of  the modern medical profession, and I'm becoming even less a fan of modern medicine in general.  I think our health care is far too specialized, much too focused on invasive and expensive treatments, and entirely too profit oriented.  And I think the health insurance industry is at the root of a lot of those ills.  Nothing about the current health care reforms addresses a major problem in health care - curbing costs.  And I don't think any politician will ever address that issue because they're too indebted to the insurance and pharmaceutical lobbies.

In choosing the highest deductible plan for our individual insurance policy, we felt as if we were taking a tiny bit of power back into our own hands, power that the insurance and medical bureaucracy has been wielding over the little guy for much too long.

And that was good medicine.