HOW I TRIED GETTING LIFE INSURANCE AND ENDED UP TAKING A FITNESS TEST
HOW I TRIED GETTING LIFE INSURANCE AND ENDED UP TAKING A FITNESS TEST
It all began on a peaceful Tuesday morning when I woke up feeling financially responsible for the first time in years. You know that strange adult feeling where your brain suddenly decides to behave and whispers, “You should secure your financial future”? Yes, the same financial future I had previously ignored in favor of online shopping discounts and impulsive food delivery orders.
. So, naturally, I decided it was finally time to get life insurance, because nothing screams “I have control of my life” like submitting your information to a company that keeps asking if your family has a history of mysterious illnesses.
I was ready. Emotionally. Mentally. Financially? Absolutely not. But hope is free, and I had plenty of that.
For motivation, I watched a bunch of personal finance videos on YouTube where overly enthusiastic advisors insisted that getting life insurance, investing in a retirement plan, building long-term wealth, and ensuring proper estate planning were essential steps toward achieving “financial wellness.” After video number seven, I was convinced I was on the brink of becoming a billionaire—just one signature away from generational wealth.
With glowing confidence (and trembling bank balance), I visited a well-known insurance company website promising competitive rates, premium coverage, and excellent customer service. What they didn’t promise—something I’d soon learn—is that they would also evaluate your physical condition like you’re training for the Olympics.
It started harmlessly. The website asked me for my name, age, occupation, weight, height, and whether I occasionally experience stress. I laughed and typed, “ALWAYS,” because adulthood is basically long-term, recurring stress disguised with forced smiles.
Then things escalated.
The moment I submitted my application, a message popped up:
“Congratulations! A health assessment is required for premium verification.”
Health assessment?
Premium verification?
Why did this sound like a hidden prerequisite to join the Navy?
Before I could click “Cancel” and pretend none of this happened, an email arrived.
Fast.
Too fast.
Suspiciously fast.
It said:
“Your fitness evaluation appointment is confirmed for Thursday at 9 AM.”
Fitness?
Evaluation?
Confirmed?
I hadn’t even agreed. Why were they scheduling things for me? Did choosing life insurance automatically enroll me in a gym membership?
I tried to ignore the email, but later that evening I received a reminder text message with the enthusiasm of a personal trainer:
“Get ready to secure your long-term financial stability!”
Excuse me.
I came for life insurance, not life judgment.
By Thursday morning, I decided to show up. After all, this was for my financial wellbeing, my wealth management goals, and my future portfolio. Besides, I wanted my family to see me as a responsible adult who owned at least one serious financial document.
I arrived at the assessment center wearing my most “I am healthy enough for insurance approval” outfit. It was the same outfit I wear whenever I try to impress people who know how to read blood pressure numbers.
Inside, the receptionist asked me to fill out a questionnaire.
I looked at the first question:
“Have you exercised in the last 24 hours?”
I wanted to answer honestly, but the only exercise I had done recently was chasing my food delivery rider across the street because he insisted he “was outside” when he absolutely wasn’t.
So I confidently wrote:
“Yes. Light cardio.”
The light cardio being the walk I took from my bed to the fridge last night.
The second question was:
“Do you smoke?”
No.
But the number of times life has stressed me to the point where smoking looked like a solid financial investment…
Still, I ticked “No.” Because the only thing I’ve ever smoked is my phone charger.
Then the test began.
First, they measured my blood pressure. The machine squeezed my arm like it was attempting to take a personal loan from my bloodstream. The nurse smiled and said, “Your blood pressure is a little high.”
A little high?
At this point in life, isn’t everyone’s blood pressure high?
Next, they checked my weight. I stepped on the scale hoping it would lie for the sake of my financial future. It didn’t.
This scale was brutally honest. It was the kind of scale that exposes secrets.
The nurse wrote down the number, looked at me, and said, “Hmm.”
Just “Hmm.”
No explanation.
No comfort.
Just pure medical judgment.
After that came the real disaster: a fitness test I did not sign up for.
The instructor entered with a stopwatch and a smile that indicated he enjoyed watching people suffer in the name of “health assessment.” He explained that I needed to do a “basic fitness challenge” to help calculate my insurance premium.
A basic fitness challenge?
Sir, the only challenge I’ve completed this year is surviving my bank balance.
He asked me to jog lightly on a treadmill for three minutes.
Three minutes?
In this economy?
With inflation?
With global stress?
But I forced myself on the treadmill and started jogging like someone who was running toward a better credit score.
After forty-five seconds, I was already negotiating with God. After one minute, I felt I had seen the afterlife. After two minutes, my soul left my body and started observing from the corner of the room. By the time I hit three minutes, I was clinically convinced my ancestors were trying to welcome me home.
When I got off the treadmill, the instructor said, “We just need to do a quick flexibility check.”
Flexibility?
My bank account isn’t flexible.
My back isn’t flexible.
My schedule isn’t flexible.
Why should I be flexible?
He asked me to touch my toes.
I bent down with the courage of someone about to open their credit card statement. I got halfway, heard something crack, and realized it was probably my financial stability snapping in half. I reached, reached, reached… and touched absolutely nothing.
The instructor nodded, wrote something down, and I’m 99% sure he labeled me as “economically alive, physically questionable.”
Then came the final test: breathing.
He wanted me to blow into a device to measure lung capacity.
My lungs were already exhausted from the treadmill trauma.
I inhaled deeply, blew into the device, and nearly passed out. The machine beeped and the instructor said, “Your lungs are… interesting.”
Interesting?
What does that even mean?
Am I approved?
Rejected?
Should I write a will?
After all the tests, I sat in the waiting area staring at a poster that said:
“Life insurance gives peace of mind.”
Peace of mind?
Sir, I have never felt further from peace.
Eventually, a representative walked in smiling like someone who just got approved for a home loan. She handed me a document and said:
“Based on your health assessment, fitness indicators, and long-term risk evaluation, we can offer you an excellent life insurance policy. But your premium will be slightly higher due to certain results.”
Slightly higher?
Ma’am, my lungs almost retired during this process.
I looked at the premium amount and immediately realized my life was too expensive. I considered cancelling everything and instead investing in vitamins, gym equipment, and spiritual protection.
But after a deep breath—the little breath left in me—I signed the document anyway, because nothing secures one’s future like committing to monthly payments you’re not emotionally ready for.
When I finally left the center, I felt like I had just completed a triathlon sponsored by the financial services industry. I sat in my car thinking about how all I wanted was peaceful life insurance, not an audition for a fitness commercial.
But truthfully, the experience taught me something valuable:
Adulthood is basically a series of financial decisions that take you by surprise.
You sign up for one thing and suddenly find yourself exercising in front of professionals.
Still, in a strange way, I felt proud. I had taken a major step toward long-term financial security, future asset protection, and wealth management—even if the journey nearly sent me to the hospital.
Now, whenever I receive my monthly policy reminder email, I smile…
Not because I enjoy paying premiums, but because I remember the treadmill incident and laugh at the fact that my attempt at financial responsibility turned into a physical endurance test.
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