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There’s got to be a better way…

August 30, 2011

I called the credit card company the other day to query something and as part of security was asked a few questions. Used to being asked for my date of birth (a series of numbers whose unflinching permanence means that you can pretend that nothing ever changes, including your age), I was brought back to my early-30s with a knee-stiffening jolt. “Madam, can you confirm what age you will be on your next birthday?”

There’s got to be a better way to verify I am who I say I am than forcing me to confront the creak of middle-age ambling lopsidedly in my direction. It’s not even asking my age, which is bad enough. It’s asking me to project to the next milestone of impending decay, fastforwarding another year closer to the end. Brrrr, it’s bad enough having to think about the fact that some fully grown adults were born in the 1990s.

I think Barclaycard’s just trying to depress me into thinking about how few quality life years ahead of me I have to use their (frankly disappointing and non-competitive) credit to buy a whole range of goods and services.

I cancelled the card anyway, immortality reinstated! How does that feel, mortals?

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