STRANGER THAN FICTION: INSURANCE COMPANIES MAKE STRANGE RULES

After several years of being gouged and watching The Other Half be gouged by insurance companies, I'm about ready to join the Insurance-Is-A-Racket Clan.

You've heard them spouting off their doctrines in the coffee shop.

"You pay 'em all these premiums, then you have one accident and what happens? You're outta there!" they say, taking another swig.

They have a point, except you aren't always "outta there." After a year of Mr. Half's delusions of grandeur -- he thought he was Jeff Gordon going for the checkered flag -- he racked up several speeding tickets and ended up in the high-risk group.

My agent was a little nicer. I hit a deer in 1990 and a Corsica in 1991. When my premiums went up, I went in to raise my deductibles to some outrageous amount.

"You'd better hope the next wreck kills you," he said, looking at my policy.

Whatta guy.

Turning 25 and getting married helped a lot for both of us, so I highly recommend those steps to anyone battling high premiums. Trust me, it's worth every penny when you get that payment notice.

The only trouble is the insurance vultures who scan the newspapers so they can swoop down on unsuspecting newlyweds. You learn how to deal with them after awhile.

"Hi, I'm Ted," they say. "I've done some insurance work for your friend Bob, and he said --"

"He's not my friend." Click.

If I want insurance, I'll call you. How 'bout that?

But you must have health insurance. The program at my last job couldn't have been worse. It didn't pay out unless you had an illness bad enough to render you unconscious, when you wouldn't care anyway.

The informative booklet explaining my former health benefits turned up the other day, and I noticed a section called "What Is Not Covered." No corrective shoes. No treatment for venereal disease. No dentures.

Excuse me, but was I really contributing to a company that didn't care if I limped into work with a club foot, unmentionable personal problems and no teeth?

Some of the things on the list were plain ol' BIZARRE. My former insurer wouldn't pay for a sex change. There is was, in black and white: "Your program does not cover care related to sex transformations."

Well, strip my gears and call me shiftless! If I leave work as Heidi and come back as Harry, I can't get any money for that?

Fortunately, I don't want to. But another item, the one concerning no care for obesity or weight loss, really caught my eye.

Looking at this 1-by-1-inch photo, you wouldn't imagine the proportions I've reached. Even I didn't notice until the other day, when I tried to put on THE Dress.

Every woman has THE Dress. It's the one you pull out when you feel lousy and want to look great. The one that's always clean and pressed. The one that gets you at least two compliments every time you wear it.

The one I couldn't get over my head.

Let me explain. I DID get it over my head in the "on" direction, but then I had to suck in to buckle the belt. When the buckle finally caught on the VERY LAST hole, the hip fat underneath it was parallel to the floor. I'm not kidding.

Distressed, I hurried to take it off, but my arms were stuck in the fitted sleeves and the waist wouldn't go back over my head. I woke up Mr. Half to enlist his help.

He was pulling, I was crying. "This is it!" I yelled. "I'm starting my diet today!"

"Right," he said. "I'll be pulling your head out of the crab rangoon bin at Kowloon by Wednesday."

Maybe he's right. Actually, at my height and weight, I'd be a decent-sized man.

But my insurance wouldn't cover it.

~Heidi Nieland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.