Born in the wrong century

“That does it!” I said to this laptop as I put it to sleep. “This has to stop. I’ve already blown an entire morning.”
Per my doctor I ate my protein, Eggbeaters®, as soon as I got up. Now, four hours later, it was time to eat my breakfast cereal.
I spent the morning setting up online access to my investment account. It began as initiating text access.
As one born in the prior century I don’t take text for granted. In fact, I’m amazed by it. Here I am alone last May in faraway Altoona (PA) chasing trains without my brother. My balance is bad, and I’m worried I might fall.
I didn’t, so I texted my aquacise-coach 250 miles away back home. I do aquacise in a YMCA swimming-pool to improve lousy balance.
Later I texted her again — I don’t remember why — from here at home. I found out she was responding from Hampton Roads, VA. This is amazing. A couple weeks ago I texted her again, and she responded she was in line to board an airliner. “Where?” I texted back. “Detroit,” she said.
56 long years ago, when I graduated high-school, this was Dick Tracy stuff.
Here I am at home texting my niece in Fort Lauderdale, FL. That’s well over 1,000 miles away. WHOA!
(Used to be long-distance phonecalls cost a fortune, and required a lotta dorking around.)
So, textual notifications from my financial advisor. He’s not the first. My pharmacy does it, as do my counselor and dentist; and of course my aquacise coach. I also do it because I can ask questions without interrupting. Plus text limits verbiage, which can be excessive with e-mail.
It’s the old newspaper jones: the average reader tunes out after a sentence or two. Possessed of the writing talent, I can freeze readers.
To set up text with my financial advisor, the investment firm wanted a log-in.
CRASH! Call ****, the office-administrator who helps my financial advisor. Mano-a-mano, **** facing her office ‘pyooter, me facing this laptop.
My stroke-jones makes things difficult. Throw too much at me, and my brain locks. I also hafta get off by myself to avoid messiness. “No offense ****; I like calling you. You tell me I’m funny.”
The investment-firm didn’t like my log-in. “Reset password?” I suggested. There was an 800-number I could call, but **** was doing it for me, I guess.
A lady from 800-land patched in. “Put yer phone down, “ 800-lady told ****. Guarded secrets were being exchanged. I still was lost, but it appeared we were resetting my password — which I’ve done before.
“IN!” I shouted. There was my financial advisor pictured next to a statement of my account.
“Have a nice day,” 800-lady said.
I let my Internet-browser memorize everything, although I thought later I shouldn’t. Lest Donald and the Russkies hack my investment holdings.
That’s another password reset, although I think I could do it without ****.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.