I don’t have any. So many passwords, such zealous attempts by websites to protect my privacy is defeating in the extreme. I can see the point in protecting my bank account(s). I get that it is prudent to conceal my true identity, but from myself? Come on. I still know who I am. Apparently the walls I throw up to protect that are very high, and for that I am grateful. But much of the time now I’m shut out of the privilege to access myself. It has become nearly impossible to prove that I am truly me.
For the younger generation, this seems to be easy peasy. I did the senior thing and made a list of my many identities and put them in a book so that I could eliminate the challenge of who I am to what organization. Pretty tricky, so long as I remember where I hid the book. I admit that I lack Sherlock’s skill for solving the mysteries I have apparently created concerning my identity, which is why the answers to this convoluted puzzle are now hieroglyphic to myself.
Unfortunately, the other household resident was not clued in, so I lack a backup brain to decipher this code, which makes accessing my bank account more than a challenge, and elevated it to downright irritating. See, most seniors blank periodically, and many, like me, do that with shocking regularity.
By the time I unraveled the current mystery, I forgot why I needed to in the first place. I’ve been at this since 5:30 this morning. I located my handy dandy book of notes addressing this dilemma and discovered that the guaranteed notes I made make no sense.
In the doing this morning, I discovered that the voice (s) on the other end of my call exhibited endless patience while trying to sort exactly what my problem is/was, and chuckled when I said age might be a factor. Well. They will eventually have their day. All, both male and female, worked to untangle me and I could make several corrective notes to explain my old ones to myself. They won’t make sense by next week either, but they will, and did, get me to my goal today.
I am ready for spring and resent “teaser” days that promise but deliver only more snow. Yes, I know, an inch or two should be easy to tolerate, but I plead age to be excused for some degrees of intolerance. I want spring! Now. I should be grateful for the brilliant morning sun, for the chirping of birds scouting for places to build scraggly nests, knowing their sense of timing for spring beats mine hands down. I am a bit disgusted with myself because I know full well this winter hardly comes up to “challenge”. I begin to understand why elders move to Florida. Warmth and sunshine have a definite charm and lure me, at least in my mind. But how would I convince all those near and dear to come with?
So I am thankful for the patience of others willing to sort me, and for that bright light in the morning sky, and breathing with ease, accompanied by a hearty appetite which I’m about to satisfy. While I miss the agility of my 30 yr old, well recalled body, I’ll take what I’ve got and be thankful I can still type, run the stairs, remember why I’m in the car and where I’m going….though once I get there I’m not quite sure why…look: I should be grateful I can still find the keys, remember to stop for gas, and hope that tomorrow will afford the same.
You, though, should be glad you are not my banker. Or my editor. Or my daughter.
I should endeavor to be more faithful to this nonsense blog, which I actually enjoy, and I make promises to myself with regularity and good intentions. But by now you can tell I’m pretty slipshod. Blame it on the muse.