Diary of a Professional Overthinker – Entry 6.

 

I wasn’t the only person reluctant to join Facebook. 

When I created the password IHateFacebook an error message popped up: That password is too common, please choose another more secure one. 

I’m also not alone in my resentment to use an auto-generated one either. Have you ever tried manually typing in pg&V#Gv*089^b()()b? 

Creating your own isn’t much easier. It’s hard to be creative when you’re already annoyed. As a result, my passwords often reflect my mood. This shouldn’t be an issue, right?… Passwords are supposed to remain confidential, right? 

I had to visit a Service NSW office to sort out an issue with my car registration. A woman with a crisp tucked-in shirt greeted me at the front desk. Her hair was pulled into a severe bun which elongated her eyes and drew attention to her triangular lashes and coloured-in eyebrows. They had been plucked into arches so high that her face was fixed in a constant grimace of doom and shock.   

I explained what I was there for. She replied by pursing her lips. ‘You didn’t have to come in for that. You could’ve done it all online.’ 

I gave her a blank expression which she probably mistook for a non-firing brain, but was actually my way of trying to work out a good excuse to look less of an idiot. 

‘Come over to the public computers and I’ll show you how to log in.’ 

So I followed her over, trying to recall whether I had ever made an account, and if I had, in which decade. I didn’t even want to consider what the bloody password might be. She asked me to enter my email as the username. I did it. She asked for the password and time was up — I had to confess. ‘Sorry, I don’t know if I have one.’ 

This was obviously very common… maybe even more common than the amount of people who hate Facebook. Her reply fired without pause. ‘Does your mobile save all your passwords?’

I clicked my fingers. ‘Oh yeah. I should check that.’

She gave me an apologetic look as if to say, Gee being an idiot must make for a difficult existence. This was probably the reason she leaned over my shoulder and directed me into Settings, then Apps, then Passwords. I was grateful when I could pull the phone away from her frozen catastrophied face to unlock it with my own cringing one. 

I scrolled down the menu. ‘I do have an account… Well there you go.’

Her head craned back in so she could see. She pointed. ‘You need to tap on the dots to reveal the password.’ 

So I did. 

The letters materialised.

BigB0ringShit! 

The damage was done. Her opinion of me was as stuck as her shock. I would remain an idiot to her. But I figured, it’s better to look like a plain old idiot rather than a big idiot with shit on their face. So I chuckled and bounced my eyebrows. ‘I’ve used a zero for the O.’

More boring than password creation is when a simple over-the-counter purchase turns into a bureaucratic boxing match.

I recently went to the local garden centre to buy my mother some plants for her birthday in the hope they might inject some life into her current desert-scape themed front yard. The cashier was a young woman with a green buzzcut which reminded me of radioactive moss. She asked for my Garden Lovers Club membership number. I said I didn’t have one. She gave me a five minute spiel about how Management were going to be dissatisfied with her performance if she didn’t get me to sign up. 

If only she understood my aversion to such things, she wouldn’t have taken it so personally when I gave her my most deadpan look. ‘I just want to pay for the plants and leave.’ 

She pouted, scanned the plants, then slammed the receipt onto the counter like it was my fine. 

The problem wasn’t the club (even if it did sound like the name of a retirement village). It was the paperwork required to prove I was worthy of discounted Dahlias. Before long, I might cease being Katherine and become Giardena_Amante Member#56728b()()b. The form would have the inevitable descend of gruelling questions: Address, Date of Birth, Email, Mobile Number. And eventually, What colour bra do you wear on Tuesdays?. 

I once went to the optometrist for a routine eye examination and the receptionist said my account was missing vital information. When I agreed to answer her questions, I didn’t realise how extensive their knowledge had to be for them to adequately test my eyesight. Apparently it was essential to know not only my health and my family history, but my diet, alcohol consumption and occupation.  

Back then I was a stay-at-home mum. I never liked using the title ‘Home Duties’. Maybe it’s just me, but Home Duties sounds like a penitentiary program where inmates knit scarves. 

I decided Home Duties wasn’t the right fit. So when the receptionist asked, ‘Occupation?’

I replied with, ‘Domestic Goddess.’ 

Perhaps that’s why I’ve never liked filling in forms. They’re designed to convince us we can be neatly slotted into a single category. Unfortunately, Overthinking Domestic Goddess Who Doesn’t Colour Inside The Lines, is never one of them.