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I remember when I was a kid and all I could dream about was growing up. I’d dress up in my Mum’s heels, tap away on a typewriter and coil the phone cord around my finger (it was early the '90s after all). To me, adulting looked like power and freedom, and I wanted in.
And now, 30 (or so) years later I’m living the dream. And while there’s certainly fewer high heels and typewriters than anticipated, I have to say – I’m a big fan.
I have two beautiful kids, a job that challenges and inspires me, a house in the country and a few weeks at the beach every year. I’m not saying every day of my adult life is rainbows and unicorns, but it’s a good life. I’d still totally recommend. Would adult again.
There’s just one thing… I call it ‘the ol’ adult fine print.’ In kid terms, it’s the vegetables you must eat if you want dessert. And look, until very recently, I thought I was doing okay in this department. I know roughly how much I have in my superannuation, current interest rate on our mortgage and I can host a cracking dinner party (kidding, we don’t host dinner parties — our interest rate is too high).
I even have all these bits and pieces of this life I love so much insured.
Oh, except… you know — the life itself.
To me, life insurance always felt way too morbid and confronting. I didn’t want to think about what would happen to my kids if I wasn’t around. So, I didn’t. That was, until a recent health scare rudely yanked me out of my ignorant bliss and insisted I face the one universal truth — nothing in this ‘one wild and precious life’ of ours is guaranteed – so I’d best get mine insured.
It was time to start asking the hard questions — "hey Siri – what’s the deal with life insurance and how do I get it and can you please do it for me cheers thanks love." Unfortunately, Siri "didn’t understand" (#classicsiri) and I was forced to do the hard yards myself. I’m pleased to report, it was nowhere near as difficult as I had made it out to be in my head.