Among the sometimes mutually-contradictory purposes I had when starting this journal was that it be a genuine journal - a record of my life, my thoughts, and my feelings, shared with those who cared to partake but written primarily for myself.
Like so much else in my life, things didn't work out as I had intended.
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I called my insurance company yesterday, to get Laura officially installed as my "partner" or "spouse" or "common-law wife" - though not yet Federal law, the terms are, according to Sunlife, interchangeable.
Much to my surprise, the call took maybe 2 minutes from punching in the first number to disconnect. 45 seconds to ring through and enter the extension, a minute and a quarter to explain my purpose, despite telling the agent that Laura was born on January 6, 2005. ("That would be illegal," quoth the agent. "And pretty close to impossible," I added before correcting my mistake. "January 6, 1987.")
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I don't dance and (mostly) never have. For those of you who wondered, the swing-dance lessons were an unmitigated disaster. We missed the second class and I at least never came close to catching up (I suspect Laura might have, had she not been saddled with me as a partner). By the fourth or fifth - in any case, the last - I found myself in the horrible situation of trying to practice what I had learned during the first session while studiously ignoring everything the instructor was teaching everyone else.
When we asked for a little attention, she told us, "I can't help you - I have 11 [yes: 11!] other people to teach." Nevertheless, she deigned to provide maybe 3 minutes of individual tutoring, while her assistant danced by herself in the center of the room.
Yes, I should have blown up right there and demanded my money back, but ... well, I didn't.
But we didn't go back the next week, nor any subsequent weeks. A pity. I'd still like to learn. But, since this past Saturday, not as much as I did before.
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