Grown-up Girls Solve Their Own Problems

If you haven't been following my grown-up girl saga  involving sewer pipe, doctors for your lady bits, and mysterious insurance companies, you can read about in part one and part two.  If you don't care about my grown-up girl saga and you definitely don't want to hear about insurance or gynecologists, I'd recommend not reading those parts, or this post for that matter.

Like any grown-up will tell you to do, I mustered up my courage and confronted the problem:  I called my grown-up insurance company.  After a brief discussion, the problem was identified.  The reason they didn't want to cover my grown-up girl doctor appointment and all his lab work was because they didn't believe I was actually a grown-up!  Really, that's what the problem was this whole time.  Those weren't the exact words they said, the exact words were more like, "We're not listed as your primary insurance."  If you translate that it says, "We thought you were still on your parents' insurance, little girl."  I informed them that they were my primary, indeed, my only insurance and that they had been for years (years, That's how long I've been a grown-up.).  They told me I'd need to call my previous insurance company and have them fax over my letter of termination.  Now, call me crazy, but when you get a letter of termination from your insurance company, doesn't that sound like you should be dead?  But their doomsday terminology not withstanding, I immediately called DMBA and asked them to fax a letter over to Educators Mutal and let them know that I was dead, or a grown-up, whichever they took "terminated" to mean.  They told me the letter would arrive within a half an hour.

Three days later, a day after a third grown-up lab bill arrived at my apartment to inform me that I owed another hundred grown-up dollars from my grown-up salary, I got another email from my insurance company informing me that there had been new claims filed to my account.  With very un-grown-up haste I rushed to their website, typed in my password, and sat back with a downright childish cry of delight.

I don't owe the doctor or his labs a single penny.  My insurance company was forced to acknowledge that I am, indeed, grown-up enough for them to pay for my bills.  Now I am fighting the very un-grown-up desire to go blow the $400 I'm not paying my gynecologist on something awesome.