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I just want to pay my bills. But creditors refuse to take my money.
Oh, not outright. They insist on a password.
When we were kids, we built blanket forts in the living room and wouldn't allow anyone to crawl in who didn't recite the secret password. Twenty minutes later, the fort dissolved in an argument over what the password was. None of us could remember. The leading candidates were "The spaceship flies at midnight" and "No fair!"
Now I've reached the age where my beard has turned snow white and my memory cells have gone to bed. I'm in even less condition to remember passwords, PINs or other personal information, such as my full name.
But every online site demands one. And security experts assert we use a different word for each place.
The other day, I called the automated number to make electronic payments to my insurance company. "All right, bill pay," the voice intoned. "Please say or enter on your keypad your nine-digit policy number."
I typed it in. It wasn't good enough for Mr. Automated Voice.
"Now, for security purposes, please say or enter the year you were born." I typed four digits. "And what month were you born?" I tapped another couple keys.
Why? Listen, Mr. Automated Voice, if someone wants to pay my debts, don't discourage him with secret codes or my mother's maiden name or my favorite musical instrument (baked beans). Let him pay! I'm fine with that.
It's worse when a doctor decides to run a few tests. Tests never turn up anything but a fleet of medical bills from separate billing companies, each company demanding a different set of passwords, PINs or personal information.
I guess it makes sense. Mostly. But not quite.
A friend of mine wanted to transfer money into my bank account. (I need more friends like that.) I handed over my bank account number. The next day, boom!, the deposit showed up.
My friend, a man whose name appears nowhere on any of my financial data, simply tapped into his computer a single string of numbers he took from me, and my bank let him drop a bunch of bucks into my account.
No fuss. No muss. No series of security questions, privacy hoops nor secret safety codes. "You want to give him money? Sure, c'mon in. Be our guests."
The only person my bank won't let in is me. It insists that I change the password on my account every two months. It takes me about two months and a day to memorize a password.
Passwords make excellent locks for all my private information. Until I have to try to remember which word, number or phrase belongs to which account.
Sure, I could write them on a big sheet of paper and tape them to a wall over my desk, but that's a knuckleheaded idea. You have to hide passwords or they don't count as secret.
Look, if had a good enough memory to remember where I hid my codes, I'd probably be able to remember the passwords too.
I think the next time a creditor won't take my money until I say the secret password, I'm going to use the one that always worked in the days of the blanket fort: "I'm telling Mom!" We all paid then.
— Pay Burt's bills at burtseyeview@tribtoday.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook. The password is "fat chance!"