This is a not a request for pity, or the opening PR salvo in a campaign designed to climax with the creation of a GoFundMe account, benefitting me, of course. Instead, it is an exercise designed to explain why I don’t consider myself a lucky person.
Not that I’m complaining; merely sharing my experiences to brighten the moods of people similarly encumbered with poor luck.
Understand up front, I’m talking about luck as in fortune that follows many in the niggling matters of life. These are people consistently greeted with green lights, open doors, short lines, unexpected deals and money falling into their laps for no earthly reason.
This seldom happens to me.
In the big picture, though, I am fortunate. I would argue that I made some of my own luck in major matters such as having a marriage spanning more than four decades, being able to retire at the ripe, young age of 53 ½, having a son, three granddaughters and an assortment of worldly possessions.
Despite all that, I understand things will not go well on a day-to-day basis. I’ve known this since my youth, and have compensated by working harder, allowing more time to complete a task than one would ordinarily need, and generally making allowances to deal with the reality of things not going smoothly.
I have recent examples. My main credit card was set to expire in October, so the good folks at the company sent me new cards. It was on me to update all the many things I have automatically billed to said card.
For the most part, it was not too taxing. But the company that provides health insurance for my wife and I was a multi-hour challenge. It all began with being unable to log in to our accounts because somewhere along the line the company had decided it needed better passwords from members. I wish they had told me of this.
I had to change both passwords, getting stuck in a recurring loop of needing to try to log in, getting a security code texted to me, entering said code and . . . being prompted to request a code in order to log in to the accounts.
Once I got inside it all, it was far from clear how to achieve the simple task of changing a card expiration date. A call to the subscriber line got me in touch with a woman who insisted there was not a single soul in the company who could do this for me. I doubted her.
I tried online chat, which helped, sort of. I was on one tab chatting, but had to open another tab to make the change. I did so, at the command of the masked chatter, and my chat session was automatically aborted.
But, I got the change made. On a side note, I used the new credit card twice today, for the first time since the activation, and it seemed to work.
Now, if all my online billings are correctly upated and function well. I’m guessing more woe to come on that front.
The very same time I got the new credit cards (a few weeks back) I got a card to get my photo taken for a new driver’s license. I had put off both tasks anticipating – correctly – much grief.
But, as long as I did the credit cards, I would venture to the photo center along Walters Avenue to get that done Tuesday.
The waiting room was packed when I got there, but I got a ticket for my task with only four others ahead of me. There is an electric sign that monitors progress and another guy noted to me that it was a study in government efficiency that someone had put up an instruction sign that partially covered the bottom row of the electric sign that called one’s number.
I waited about 15 minutes before getting my call, which is not too bad. It got much worse.
Ahead of me was a guy who probably wasn’t a day over 150. He had problems with basics, such as hearing, seeing, or following instructions. I wondered if this guy actually had driven to the site.
When he sat for his license photo, he got the impression he was having a portrait taken at a photo studio. He passed on at least three pictures before finally accepting – grudgingly – one for the license.
Trust me, no photographer could have made this guy handsome. Same with me, so when I got to pick I accepted the first effort, a typical criminal mugshot type of thing.
The picky photo man moved to fumbling and bumbling with questions one must answer using a numbered keypad and a computer screen. After maybe 10 attempts, and lot of coaching, he got through the ordeal.
Again, if this person actually drove to the center, we’re all in danger any time he’s on the road.
It was my turn and after a bit of adjustment of my body position to remove glare from my glasses, the picture was taken, I whipped through the questions and was told to sit and await my license. The problem was, available chairs were taken, so I leaned against the wall.
After four or five others, some of whom had come in after me, were sent on their way, I became a tad concerned.
I went to the person handling the check-in and license distribution and was told there’d been an error with printing my license and either I could wait, or they would send it to me,
I waited, not trusting adding links to the chain. But, it struck me I’d seen a lot of people come and go at this facility, including 10 or so while I was in the actual photo room, and all had been without incident – other than the Joe Biden-type guy who had gone just ahead of me. And the only delays he endured were self-inflicted.
Even that guy, with all his hesitation and uncertainty, was sent on his way with his Real ID package before I got my license.
Eventually, my license came through and I was able to depart. All told, I probably spent 35 to 40 minutes at the place. It seemed longer.
I could have shaved 10 to 15 minutes off that if things had gone as they did for the others.
Again, I’m not complaining here, just sharing.
Sam Ross Jr's site 