I recently began the process of qualifying for additional life insurance coverage at a lower rate — a sure sign my life has become dull and largely uneventful.

The insurance industry is built on risk, and yet a huge volume of resources are directed toward making the risk smaller. The companies don't offer additional life insurance to people who are not contributing to the cause.

I'm a poster boy for the cause.

They ask a lot of personal questions while you're buying life insurance. I'm 45 years old, which means I get asked some of the same questions twice.

"Do you have plans to travel outside the United States?"

"No."

"Does your work require you to travel outside the United States?"

"Only when it's my turn to neutralize subversive counterintelligence cells."

Jokes like that can leave your beneficiaries high and dry.

Kidding aside, my current lifestyle does not create a lot of risk for anyone.

After this most recent question-and-answer session, I sensed that I was a fairly safe bet.

I don't climb mountains.

I never surf, scuba dive, water ski or participate in competitions involving personal watercraft.

I don't snow ski, snowboard, hang glide, paraglide or bungee jump.

I have no plans to race cars, motorcycles or go-carts.

I do not own a small airplane or possess a license for piloting one. (They still printed paper tickets and allowed shoes the last time I flew on a commercial airliner.)

No traffic accidents or speeding tickets — or even speeding — in recent years.

And I don't belong to or plan on joining any paramilitary groups.

When I last applied for life insurance, I casually admitted to being an occasional cigar smoker. That one nearly activated the trap door.

We secured my policy — and my chair — only after intense negotiations with the home office and a sworn affidavit testifying that I never inhale cigars or consume more than 12 in a year.

Since I haven't even smelled someone else's cigar 12 times over the last year, I left that one blank this time.

The only sticking point in the current application was over cancer.

"Have you ever been treated for cancer?"

"Yes."

The jolt lowered my chair about a half-inch.

"What kind of cancer?"

"Skin cancer."

"Melanoma?"

"Basil cell. The mildest form."

My chair slowly returned to floor level.

I should be grateful that my wife and children stand to benefit more than ever in the event of my untimely demise.

But the process has left me feeling a little like I never venture off the path between home and office.

And sometimes, by golly, I do!

When the ink is securely dry on this insurance form and the blood tests are cleared, I'm liable to go climb a big rock somewhere and hang glide back down.

At the very least, I'm taking the back way to work. I might even stop at the cigar store.