What’s the magic word?

I hate passwords, don’t you? I detest that technology continually forces us to come up with new combinations of letters and numbers to do everyday things – like access computers, read e-mail, do our banking, check our kids’ grades, etc. If they ever require passwords for grocery shopping or starting a vehicle, I’m doomed.

The sheer number of tasks requiring passwords boggles my mind. Even worse, we’re supposed to create a password that's complex – using unexpected numbers and letters – not "simple” passwords that can actually be remembered. We’re also not supposed to use the same password for every task. Some Internet sites try to make it easier by making you record a clue. That way, if you forget the password, they'll tell you IF you answer some stupid question like: "What's your great aunt's least-favorite pet's name?"

This is all apparently aimed at thwarting cyber-criminals. But I suspect we’re the only ones being thwarted.

I hope my co-workers are getting used to the annoying “bing, bing, bing” sound my computer makes when it rejects my password at the start of the workday as I frantically search for the scrap of paper with the latest magic code. I have to change passwords every three months, or so the computer reminds me almost every two months. And if the new password resembles the old one, the computer rejects my choice. Believe me: Rejection by machine can be demoralizing.

I’ve heard that organized people keep lists of passwords in notebooks or on index cards. Anyone who’s seen my desk knows I’ll never be a member of that group. Besides, those organized people will be sorry when computer criminals steal their notebooks. That won’t be a problem for me.

Someone recently told me the best password is the name of an old boyfriend or girlfriend. This not only thwarts cyber-thieves, but also your loved ones – unless they’re the rare types who actually listen when you tell stories about your past.

So I "Googled" my high school boyfriend, who also was my debating partner, to see if he was worthy of being a password. Up came a link to a video of an environmental debate he’d participated in just weeks earlier. It was strange to realize I could still read his body language “tells” all these years later. I e-mailed to see if he objected to being a password. But then I became concerned he'd be able to access my bank account. Since he lives in San Francisco now, my money might just be enough to finance dinner out for him and his wife – once.

If that happens and I desperately need to replenish my account, it's a good thing I can remember the names of high school sweethearts of other people, which is odd because I can’t even remember what I ate for dinner yesterday.

For example, I’ve never forgotten the names of three former girlfriends revealed by co-workers after more than a few beers at the Knox Street Pub, a Dallas bar reportedly owned at that time by (I kid you not) Marina Oswald, widow of Lee Harvey Oswald (though I never saw her there). I did work with the guy who convinced Marina the body in her husband’s grave wasn’t his and that she should have it exhumed, though. Of course, the experts ruled it was JFK’s assassin, but I digress.

Anyway, at this after-work gathering, the guys around the table traded tales of their high school romances. Three decades later, I can still remember the names of those girls. Mayadelle, Starr and Scootchie would make really great passwords today. Watch your bank accounts, guys.