Sunday, September 30, 2012
Gender Bender
One interesting side benefit of my doctor visit on Thursday is that I found out my insurance company thinks I'm a girl. Much like the insane gym teacher from fourth grade who tried to make me do a cartwheel on a balance beam. I could barely even handle Olympic arms. But anyway, when I checked in on Thursday, the dour-looking girl at the reception desk called me back up there (after I'd already settled in with an Us Weekly detailing Amanda Bynes' troubles) and explained to me confidentially that my insurance had somehow coded me as female in their system.
"So you probably want to give them a call and fix that," she advised.
I did not, actually, but for fear of being subjected to a pelvic exam, I called my insurance company on Friday. While they readily conceded the point that I am in fact male, they claimed to be helpless to change anything without a directive from the state. But never fear, they referred me to someone. Who referred me to someone. Who put me on hold for ten minutes before transferring me into the automated system, where I pressed 0 over and over until I finally got someone else. Who then referred me to my local benefits officer.
I explained my situation, which I'd actually gotten very good at boiling down into a punchy sound bite over the course of sixteen some calls.
"Who?" the sassy assistant responded, in a bit of conversational kung fu, since I had not in fact mentioned any persons or organizations of any kind.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not sure I understand. I'm calling about my insurance info?"
"I know that, but WHO am I talking to?" she responded, as though I'd just threatened to murder her and everyone she cares about.
"I'm Jay Sch..."
"I got it. I got it. Hold for a minute."
Ten minutes elapsed. She then got back on the phone and, without preamble of any kind, went into a lengthy diatribe about how I must have filled out the insurance paperwork incorrectly. Right, that's it. It was all part of my master plan to be humiliated by a medical receptionist and then repeat the story endlessly to hostile customer service representatives. And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it wasn't for you meddling kids.
Anyway, I've now officially been designated male by my insurance company. If there's a more productive way to spend a Friday afternoon, I can't think of it.
One interesting side benefit of my doctor visit on Thursday is that I found out my insurance company thinks I'm a girl. Much like the insane gym teacher from fourth grade who tried to make me do a cartwheel on a balance beam. I could barely even handle Olympic arms. But anyway, when I checked in on Thursday, the dour-looking girl at the reception desk called me back up there (after I'd already settled in with an Us Weekly detailing Amanda Bynes' troubles) and explained to me confidentially that my insurance had somehow coded me as female in their system.
"So you probably want to give them a call and fix that," she advised.
I did not, actually, but for fear of being subjected to a pelvic exam, I called my insurance company on Friday. While they readily conceded the point that I am in fact male, they claimed to be helpless to change anything without a directive from the state. But never fear, they referred me to someone. Who referred me to someone. Who put me on hold for ten minutes before transferring me into the automated system, where I pressed 0 over and over until I finally got someone else. Who then referred me to my local benefits officer.
I explained my situation, which I'd actually gotten very good at boiling down into a punchy sound bite over the course of sixteen some calls.
"Who?" the sassy assistant responded, in a bit of conversational kung fu, since I had not in fact mentioned any persons or organizations of any kind.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not sure I understand. I'm calling about my insurance info?"
"I know that, but WHO am I talking to?" she responded, as though I'd just threatened to murder her and everyone she cares about.
"I'm Jay Sch..."
"I got it. I got it. Hold for a minute."
Ten minutes elapsed. She then got back on the phone and, without preamble of any kind, went into a lengthy diatribe about how I must have filled out the insurance paperwork incorrectly. Right, that's it. It was all part of my master plan to be humiliated by a medical receptionist and then repeat the story endlessly to hostile customer service representatives. And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it wasn't for you meddling kids.
Anyway, I've now officially been designated male by my insurance company. If there's a more productive way to spend a Friday afternoon, I can't think of it.
