I've always subscribed to a strict policy of safety first: I always wear my seatbelt, I always use a condom (I'm wearing one right now!), I shred my used financial documents, I don't allow myself to be thrown onto the tracks in front of oncoming trains, etc. But I've never been able to let go of the blindingly clever passwords (really! it's too bad I can't tell you what they are!) that I concocted years ago when I opened the two email accounts I still use to this day.
Last week, though, I decided it was just too scary to contemplate the thought of malicious strangers accessing my email and compromising the security of all those rehearsal schedules, fan letters and electronic Old Navy coupons.
So I did it. I changed my email password. (Just one, though. Baby steps.)
But—like the words to "Dancing Queen" and the proper way to fold a fitted sheet—that old password is hard-wired into my DNA. And I automatically type it every time I try to open that email account. Every. Fucking. Time.
The new password is blindingly clever, too. It's too bad I can't tell you what it is.
Last week, my adorable nephew told his teacher he had Virus One in an effort to get out of class and go sit with the school nurse. He's only five. When did he get to be such a creative hypochondriac? And where the hell did he come up with "Virus One"?