I love the Progressive Insurance commercials about protecting you from becoming your parents. In case you haven’t seen these amusing, yet frightfully realistic commercials, a parents-life-coach named Dr. Rick, in his Mockumentaries, guides young homeowners away from situations in which they are turning into their parents. He explains he does it because he found himself turning into his father, but he managed to find his way back.

He tells one assembled group, “If you printed out directions to get here today, you’re in the right place.”
He then tells them to silence their cell phones. The group replies by staring at their cell phones in bewilderment before one young woman replies, “My phone doesn’t have a silence button.”
In another commercial, he asks a group of young adults, “Do we really need a sign to ‘live, laugh, and love?’ “
The group all chimes, “Yes.”
He replies, “The answer is ‘no,’ “ as he directs a young woman to toss the sign into the trash.
Then he has members of the group attempt to pronounce the word “quinoa.” Okay, that one hit home because I have no idea how to pronounce “quinoa.” Even worse, I don’t know exactly what “quinoa” is, although I believe it’s some kind of foo-foo health food.
These commercials end with the caveat that while Progressive can’t protect you from turning into your parents, it can do all kinds of wonderful things for your insurance needs.
I’m afraid it’s too late for me. I realized this the other day as I sat at my dining room table distributing my husband’s and my pills into their respective daily containers. What used to take five minutes now occupies a considerably increasing chunk of my time. When did this transition happen?
I distinctly remember my father-in-law visiting us several years ago. I came home from work one evening and asked, “What did you do today, Dad?”
He answered, “I spent the afternoon organizing my pills.”
How does one respond to that? I think I said, “Well, I’m glad you found something productive to occupy your time,” while shaking my head in disbelief. I think I even sent up a silent prayer saying, “Dear Lord, please don’t ever let me become like my father-in-law, spending my retirement days counting out my pills.
Not only did he spend the day filling his weekly pill container, but he regaled me in explicit detail as to what each and every pill was for.
And now, aloha, I’m HIM! Well, not exactly, as I don’t expound to everyone within ear shot what each pill is for. Plus, I’m not retired—yet. Still, it’s good to know when that day comes, I’ll have something to keep me busy with all the spare time I’ll have. I doubt even Dr. Rick can save me.