Today’s blog post is brought to you by the sun, sunscreen, bleach cream, and Scott and I were married on July 17, 2004 by a pastor in front of one hundred witnesses.
When people say they don’t want to get married because it’s a piece of paper – they’re right. Marriage is a piece of paper.
It’s a piece of paper that can be easily misplaced when a newlywed couple moves from Manhattan, Kansas to Charleston, South Carolina. Misplaced meaning it probably got thrown in the trash. Thirteen years later, it most likely doesn’t exist because paper is biodegradable, much like a marriage. Hold on. That last sentence came out wrong. Scott and I are still married. According to our health insurance, we are not.
“Mr. Burton, we regret to inform you that Julie Burton will not be covered on your health insurance policy effective immediately. Please submit a valid marriage license stating you are married.”
The insurance company wanted proof Scott and I are married. They also wanted proof that Emma and Kate are Scott’s dependents. Emma and Kate’s birth certificates were sufficient to prove that Scott is the father of Emma and Kate Burton. The birth certificates also lists the mother – me, Julie Burton. I share the family last name because we’re married and Scott didn’t bang his sister.
I’ve nagged the shit out of Scott to order a new marriage license. No, I didn’t politely remind Scott. I nagged because we’re married.
A few months ago, Scott pointed out a dark discoloration on my face because we’re married.
Scott reminded me for weeks that my face is flawed and I should get checked out by a dermatologist because we’re married.
I lied. Scott didn’t tell me my face is flawed. But he was concerned I would get skin cancer. But, to me, he totally looked for flaws because we’re married.
I finally made an appointment with a dermatologist.
“Mrs. Burton, your insurance card isn’t working. We even called and they said you aren’t covered anymore. You’ll have to self pay and resubmit it when it’s working again.”
My thumbs rage-texted Scott in the waiting room.
“Julie Burton? If you follow me, I’ll take you back to the room and the doctor will be right in.”
The doctor walked in the room.
“Hey Julie, what’s going on today?”
“I have this discoloration on my face. I’m a little concerned about it. It’s been there for months now. The intensity changes but it’s always there.
“What SPF sunscreen do you wear?”
“Oh, high. 70, maybe? I’m paranoid about that stuff. I’ve been at the pool with my kids a lot this summer.”
“Do you reapply?”
“I do to my kids. Hm, no, not to me. I kinda forget about taking care of myself when I’m with them.”
“I see. This is from the sun. Make sure you continue to wear a high SPF and reapply. That’s key, make sure you reapply. I’ll prescribe some bleach cream that should help balance out the discoloration.”
“That’d be awesome. Thank you.”
I walked out to the receptionist.
“That will be 108 dollars, Mrs. Burton.”
Dear health insurance company, I regret to inform you you didn’t get a wedding invite on July 17th, 2004. You missed a hell of a party. You also missed being a witness to the words, “I take you in sickness and in health as long as we never lose the marriage license because official name changes, tax returns, and bank account statements won’t be enough to prove we’re married.”
Marriage is a piece of paper.
Don’t forget to wear sunscreen.
And don’t forget to buy my book, “But Did You Die?”