Passwords make me want to pass-out. We need them for everything we do, even leaving the house if you’ve got a fancy code-protected garage door. And once you leave the house, you are still handcuffed by the buggers to do your banking, grocery shopping and even the freakin’ gym for God’s sake. I hate to admit it, especially to my kids, but my memory banks are shrinking. All those safety-protection barriers are probably the very reason why I am losing my mind.
The only passcode I frequently forget and am willing to beg for help is itunes. Usually the kids are adding an app to my phone or their phones so I’m kind of out of the loop. If I need something, like a cowbell app for example, I just ask. What the heck do I need a cowbell for anyway? Well, if your husband is riding in a Euro-style bike race, and the crowd is going crazy with cowbells, ya kind of wanna ride the wave of Euro-style enthusiasm. Call it group-thinking or group-ringing, but I wanted a bell and I knew how to improvise; I just needed a little help from my friend, my 11-year-old. “Hey! What’s my itunes password again?”
Back in the day, when email was the only secret password we needed, it was easy. Work email or home, my password was the same so I wouldn’t forget. Seemed smart to me at the time. I was happy and unburdened. But then the world of techno-evil surfaced and things weren’t so secret any more. My husband warned me of the evil world living just outside of me and my computer. “You better change your passwords regularly or you will face unfathomable dangers!” His wise and poignant warning stayed tucked away, safe, for over ten simple and blissful years.
Then one day, I found myself at a Wednesday night swim meet. I’m happily chatting with my friend, waiting the requesite 30 minutes for the next 30 second race for my son. An uneasiness is forming in my stomach. My sixth sense is on high alert. I glance over at a group of snickering moms, huddled around an iphone. Their sixth sense is activated too, they look up at me. (Moms are so powerful.) “FRRR-AAAAN-CCCCCIE! Come here!” I leap like Superman, dodging blanket encampment upon blanket encampment. I’m a sucker for following an enthusiastic crowd, especially at athletic events, but this for some reason seemed different.
Horrors! My husband’s doomsday prediction had unfortunately come true. Apparently I knew how to have a really good time and I wanted all my friends, family and acquaintances to know. It’s the kind of stuff you could read about in XXX-rated magazines if they existed. I’m just guessing because I’ve never read one of those “publications” and I couldn’t bring myself to read what unspeakable things some “good-Samaritan” hacker “helped” me to share via my email address book, about five times per recipient. Generous.
The volume of emails proved too tempting for my kind-hearted friend. “She really must need help,” my gal pal thought. Once opened, well the absurdity was too great to contain. Hilarious! I’m REALLY glad she saw it that way. And it did make for good swim meet banter, beyond the “it’s freezing and it’s freakin’ July” or “How’s the chicken Cesar at this pool?” For me, I kept thinking, “Well, guess who’s laughing now?” Apparently everyone I know. I was not looking forward to facing my techno-wise man.
Well, hubby just waved me off to do what I needed to do. No teachable moment discussion or “I told ya so.” He’s a swell guy. Lucky me, I got to spend the rest of my evening changing all my PIA passwords, all sixteen, all DIFFERENT! Stupid hacker. What fun is it to wreak havoc on an innocent soul and not even SEE the results? The imagination is supposedly more exciting than the real deal. Cheap thrills, I call it.
All my super-strength-rated words are carefully documented and hidden in secret places I hope I remember. Fortunately, the password people know about people like me and give you the option to start a new password. It’s all done through email. So I really only have to remember my email address and password, just like the old days. And if all else fails, besides my memory, I can always call on my guys.
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