November 17, 2017 was a BIG day in our lives. It's a day my wife and I have been working towards since we were teenagers. It's the day we signed up for Social Insecurity.
I've paid into Social Insecurity since I was 16 years old and now I'm… well, let's just say I'm 462 years old in dog years. We debated on when to take it. The spry 62 year olds argue, "We want to get some before it goes broke." Then there are those like me who waited until full retirement age who didn't want to be limited on how much money we could make. Besides, I don't know how many years I have until I take that trip in the long, black Cadillac with no back seat. I already know I'm over the hill, I just don't know many years I have until I'm under it. I gave serious consideration to waiting until I was 70 because then I could get three grand a month! But I wouldn't know what to do with such riches so I took it at 66.
We had three options for signing up: we could do it online, on the phone or in person. I signed up for Medicare online and my wife did it over the phone and it was all a nightmare, so we decided to sign up with a real person. They tell you to bring your Social Insecurity card, marriage license and birth certificate which prompted a nationwide search for documents I haven't laid my eyes on in 40 years. When we finally found my Social Insecurity card it was so old and delicate it was ready to instantaneously combust.
One of the signs you're ready for Social Insecurity is you get lost trying to find the right building. The last time I saw this particular piece of ground it was a cow pasture. Another sign is while you're waiting in line outside the building a guard comes out and offers you a chair.
Once inside we all sat in a classroom surrounded by kiosks with big numbers on them. When I looked around all I saw was a bunch of old and decrepit individuals with silver in their hair and gold in their teeth. "These folks are really old," I told my wife.
"Probably younger than we are," she sighed.
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