...and one ring to proust them , frodo
let's just get this one out of the way.
for a girl who spends 99.9% of her life swimming and frequently drowning in various shades of grey, it's nice to feel some absolute moments of black & white. especially in the same day.
hate
...insurance companies. holy, holy hell, do i hate insurance companies.
i don't even like the way the ring sounds when i'm waiting for some plebian on the other end to answer and ruin my life.
it seems very weird to me that my company can, and will, change the course of my life by changing health insurance companies or plans. and it seems freakishly weirder yet that said insurance companies get to decide how, when and where women can seek care when they need it. men too, of course, but jasus mary and joseph, i swear they hate anything that moves and owns breasts. (uh oh...this is my first feminist rant ever. i wonder if i'll have to start using oprah words now, like "empower" and "brave" and "strong"). doctors, copays, waiting rooms, procedures, lab results, highlights magazine-- haven't they made it scary enough? it also leads into a labyrinth of catch-22s... the insurance company can dictate that you must see a certain doctor, (who you probably have to wait *forever* to see, thus racking up your stress points and potentially worse health), who then deems it necessary for you to suffer MORE of her wrath, which the insurance company denies because they have the power to say how many doctor's visits, procedures or "bonus emergencies" you are allowed to have in, say, an entire goddamn year of your life.
i am heartened by badguy big corporations like borders and starbucks for the fact that they offer good benefits, even to part-time employees, but it's almost like they're endorsing the problem itself. insurance is all about numbers, probability and "house wins" seedy vegas mentalities, but do they care that we're not numbers? that i, jane kathryn, am a small number, but am cuter than a fridge full of puppes? and that i happen to find my own numerically small life valuable? do they know how empowered we become when we can choose our own medical caregivers? do they know how brave we have to be when they put us on hold at 7:30am to garth brooks music while they determine our fate? do they know how strong we are when we... um... lift weights?
love
the oprah thing is exhausting-- let's just talk about material-based happiness instead.
i have a strange, intense relationship with my dad, who is... shall we say, strange and intense. well, interesting and intense. please see: an entire novel that will be written in 30 years, rivaling "valley of the dolls", but without the whole "pill thing". hmm- maybe more like "yentl"? i'll work on that.
anyway. my dad has that heartbreaking, updike short-story, completely wonderful way of waiting 10, 20 years in-between surprises, and when he pops them on you, your heart explodes all over your shirt.
today i came home to discover a box that UPS had awkwardly attempted to hide under my welcome mat. it was humorous, and i don't have a picture of it. however, i do have a picture of what was inside the box, so i'll be all shallow and "what?" and post that instead.
in case you've never met me, i'm a big fan of marcel proust. big. fan. my dad came across a ring that has- out of all seven (six with the montcrieff translation) volumes and 4,000 pages- one of my favorite quotes written in the tiniest font ever created.
"the real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes". (if you want to read it in person, you'll probably have to be lying face-first on my hand. and if we have that kind of relationship, bully good for you!)
one of the most depressing conversations i ever had was in college, when a friend of mine tried to explain how having an engagement ring meant that you'd finally been tied to a future that would lead you to happiness. but today, in a weird way, i'm looking down at my hand thinking that this ring, which was found and sent so sweetly from my favorite person on this planet, will do what nostalgic possessions are supposed to do-- accompany me to new landscapes. it might lead me through chaos, sadness, and a few bouts of drunkenness (as marcel would expect), but in true proustian style, it will remind me of how having a portal to my past will propel me to my tomorrows.
and that, besides being empowered, brave and strong, is a good thing.
for a girl who spends 99.9% of her life swimming and frequently drowning in various shades of grey, it's nice to feel some absolute moments of black & white. especially in the same day.
hate
...insurance companies. holy, holy hell, do i hate insurance companies.
i don't even like the way the ring sounds when i'm waiting for some plebian on the other end to answer and ruin my life.
it seems very weird to me that my company can, and will, change the course of my life by changing health insurance companies or plans. and it seems freakishly weirder yet that said insurance companies get to decide how, when and where women can seek care when they need it. men too, of course, but jasus mary and joseph, i swear they hate anything that moves and owns breasts. (uh oh...this is my first feminist rant ever. i wonder if i'll have to start using oprah words now, like "empower" and "brave" and "strong"). doctors, copays, waiting rooms, procedures, lab results, highlights magazine-- haven't they made it scary enough? it also leads into a labyrinth of catch-22s... the insurance company can dictate that you must see a certain doctor, (who you probably have to wait *forever* to see, thus racking up your stress points and potentially worse health), who then deems it necessary for you to suffer MORE of her wrath, which the insurance company denies because they have the power to say how many doctor's visits, procedures or "bonus emergencies" you are allowed to have in, say, an entire goddamn year of your life.
i am heartened by badguy big corporations like borders and starbucks for the fact that they offer good benefits, even to part-time employees, but it's almost like they're endorsing the problem itself. insurance is all about numbers, probability and "house wins" seedy vegas mentalities, but do they care that we're not numbers? that i, jane kathryn, am a small number, but am cuter than a fridge full of puppes? and that i happen to find my own numerically small life valuable? do they know how empowered we become when we can choose our own medical caregivers? do they know how brave we have to be when they put us on hold at 7:30am to garth brooks music while they determine our fate? do they know how strong we are when we... um... lift weights?
love
the oprah thing is exhausting-- let's just talk about material-based happiness instead.
i have a strange, intense relationship with my dad, who is... shall we say, strange and intense. well, interesting and intense. please see: an entire novel that will be written in 30 years, rivaling "valley of the dolls", but without the whole "pill thing". hmm- maybe more like "yentl"? i'll work on that.
anyway. my dad has that heartbreaking, updike short-story, completely wonderful way of waiting 10, 20 years in-between surprises, and when he pops them on you, your heart explodes all over your shirt.
today i came home to discover a box that UPS had awkwardly attempted to hide under my welcome mat. it was humorous, and i don't have a picture of it. however, i do have a picture of what was inside the box, so i'll be all shallow and "what?" and post that instead.
in case you've never met me, i'm a big fan of marcel proust. big. fan. my dad came across a ring that has- out of all seven (six with the montcrieff translation) volumes and 4,000 pages- one of my favorite quotes written in the tiniest font ever created.
"the real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes". (if you want to read it in person, you'll probably have to be lying face-first on my hand. and if we have that kind of relationship, bully good for you!)
one of the most depressing conversations i ever had was in college, when a friend of mine tried to explain how having an engagement ring meant that you'd finally been tied to a future that would lead you to happiness. but today, in a weird way, i'm looking down at my hand thinking that this ring, which was found and sent so sweetly from my favorite person on this planet, will do what nostalgic possessions are supposed to do-- accompany me to new landscapes. it might lead me through chaos, sadness, and a few bouts of drunkenness (as marcel would expect), but in true proustian style, it will remind me of how having a portal to my past will propel me to my tomorrows.
and that, besides being empowered, brave and strong, is a good thing.
posted by JustJane at
6:25 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home