I tried to tease my husband about his age.

Two days ago I wrote on X that we wanted to leave our current insurer and take out new life policies with Trygg-Hansa, where we already have everything else. They said the cutoff is 56. I am 56. I have five months. He is 59. The company still wants me. It no longer wants him.

I told our son. I left out the part about my own deadline.

He did not laugh.

He said our generation gets rejected for being old. His will get rejected earlier — and for everything else.

He lives in a world where almost everything is logged and sold on. Too little exercise. Too much exercise. Too antisocial. Too many risks. The car already knows how you drive. The watch already knows how you sleep. Sooner or later, he thinks, a speeding ticket arrives because the car reported itself. No police. No conversation. Just a charge.

That is not a wild teenager theory anymore. Usage-based car insurance already prices your braking and your phone. Wearables already show up in claims fights. The jump from “we use the data to price the policy” to “we use the data to refuse you” is shorter than most adults want to admit.

It felt grim. So I promised him that if that future actually arrives, we buy a small island, move there, and declare the Kingdom of Dewlar.

To my great surprise, he is completely on board.

I was aiming for a cheap joke about my husband’s age. I got a briefing on the rest of his life instead.

If the kingdom ever needs a flag, I am taking suggestions. What would your kids name the island?