If you’d like to figure out what’s wrong with you relationship-wise, don’t read a self-help book. Get an online bank account.
Every time I log into my checking account, I’m asked a “security question,” the answer to which only I’m supposed to know, so the bank can confirm my identity. Thus far, the only question the bank has asked me upon logging in is the name of my first boyfriend. And what a joy it is to be forced to recall that relationship on a regular basis.
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When I was setting up the account, I had to select three possible security questions from a handful of rotten choices. The only questions I could answer with any certainty were my mother’s birthplace and the name of Bozo my first boyfriend. But choosing the third question threw me for a loop. The street I grew up on? Geez, I moved around so much, I barely remember what my high school was called. The name of my favorite pet? Well, there was Mitten, my first cat, but we had to give her away. Then there was my Grandma’s dog, Maggie, but she got hit by a car. My best friend in grammar school? Which grammar school? I had a best friend in each one. I could say Molly Bartasevich, she was a decent chick. But am I going to remember ol’ Moll every time I log in?
Still, the worst question has to be about my first boyfriend, a self-loathing man/boy who cheated and made fun of everything I did. Now, every time I log into my account I have to think about this hideous example of masculine turd-headedness and what a dip I was for digging him.
Could there be worse memories to unearth from the past? How ‘bout, “what was the name of the kid in grade school who used to make fun of you for buying your clothes at KMart” or, “what was more embarrassing; having food in your braces throughout the entire fifth grade or tripping over your shoelaces in front of your quarterback crush in high school?”
Based on the answers to my security questions, I’ve deduced the following: I may have a fear of intimacy due to a history of rootlessness, mean kids on the playground and pet trauma, culminating in a damaging first love relationship with a complete heel.
Thanks, Bank of America!
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If we must remember personal information about ourselves with such frequency, how about more forward thinking, more enjoyable security questions? Here are my suggestions:
“What is the most interesting city you’ve ever visited?”
“What do you love most about puppies?”
“If you had five minutes in an elevator with George Clooney, what would you do to him first?”
“How much money do you wish was in this bank account after you get through these lameass security questions?”
Personally, I’m glad to have discovered this banking treasure. My financial institution is really helping me out in the most challenging areas of my life. Their exorbitant fees keep my piddly budget in check, the crickets I hear chirping whenever I’m on hold with customer service teaches me patience, and now their covert love counsel is getting my romantic life back on track.
Who needs self-help when you’ve got a bank?
**Reprinted from Laura K. Warrell's blog Tart&Soul at www.TartandSoul.com.