That number is mine
Thankfully my name doesn’t change very often. I mean, I’ve grown quite attached to my personal identity. And with my identity, there are the “water wings” that keep me afloat in an everchanging world.
Some years back, my principal email address was destroyed. The corporation that had issued that little string in the early years of interpersonal communication decided to revamp their service. One of the collateral victims: me. I had no choice but to find another service, take care of notifying my friends and then wait for the dust to settle.
In the last few weeks, my credit card company decided to improve my financial security, through the issue of a card containing a magic chip. I’m not complaining; it can only help in protecting me from the marauding pirates of cross-border commerce. But, and here’s the rub, they also decided to change my number.
I’ve had that number for close to three decades. For richer, for poorer; I made sure that I memorized it, and on the single occasion that I needed to rent a high pressure water jet machine, I was able to get around my leaving the plastic at home, by quoting the sixteen digits plus check code from memory.
Now I’m back to the beginning. After changing my number online with my friends at Paypal and my Usenet supplier, I’m back to memorization. Not funny, card issuer.
It could be worse. I might have to face a change in my personal phone number, or a renaming of my residential street. What if I had to learn a new callsign? It’s all part of my identity, and I like things just the way they were.
