In assessing my own physical prowess, I arrived in America early last year with somewhat of an inflated opinion.
Sure, I wasn't sporting a rippling six-pack or benching twice my bodyweight, but neither was I sucking on inhalers, counting pills or crawling the sidewalks of Manhattan on a reinforced mobility scooter.
Born-and-raised in a First World country with a BMI - depending on the day's carrot cake intake - bobbing somewhere at the low end of the scale, 25-years-old. No asthma. Low blood pressure. Not a single cigarette in all my life. And no greater physical complaint than popsicle-stick thighs of a willowy 14-year-old girl.
Yes! I thought. Here I am, America! Young, healthy and keen! Now sign me up for health insurance before I do anything to spoil my luck.
At first I was a little amused when the quotes on premiums came back. Then, as scores of companies pushed me to sign, my surprise turned to outright despair. As a freelancer, the most basic insurance plans, covering only trips to the ED, would cost me in the vicinity of US$300 ($363) a week. Welcome to the USA.