The more complex things become, the more vulnerable to disruption they are. So say systems theory, economics, and philosophy. The effect is observable in ecosystems, supply chains, and financial systems. It’s in the touchscreen controls of the washing machine that stopped working. It’s in the package that’s always running late for delivery. It’s in the one I’m sending back today.
The online order history says “brown.” The receipt in the box says the same. The item in the box is so white it glows in the dark. Apparently, the vulnerable link in my supply chain was the guy in the warehouse who pulled the order.
Preparing to return the item is itself an exercise in complexity. First, I need to check my email to get the order number. Email requires a login. A username and password are no longer secure enough, so I need third-party verification. The email client wants to send me an email to verify that it’s really me trying to check my email. Fortunately, the email address for verification is different from the email address I’m attempting to check for my order number.
When I attempt to log in to the alternate email address to retrieve the code to verify it’s me attempting to log in to the primary email address, the alternate email address wants to send me an email with a code to verify that it’s me, or it will send me a text.
Yesterday, I worked in the garden and moved heavy rocks into and out of the bucket on the tractor. The work is not complex, but it is the kind of work that makes calluses which confuse the delicate and complex fingerprint reader on my phone, which forces me to remember the combination to the safe where I keep the security code to open the phone to receive the text which contains the code that proves it’s actually me trying to check my email. The code has now expired.
This is an improvement over the dark ages before our phone carrier worked out how to get Wi-Fi calling to function on the phones they sold us. We have no cell service where we live, not a single bar. The phone company kept trying to sell us a signal booster until we convinced them there was no signal to boost.
In any event, when the bank would send a text with the code used to verify that it was really me attempting to log in to check my balance, I would hop in the truck and drive 3 miles to the church parking lot, which we affectionately refer to as “cell phone hill,” where one bar of signal strength was sufficient to retrieve the text. It’s the only available signal for miles, and the little church gets more traffic during the week than it does on Sunday. After retrieving the text with the code, I would drive back home as quickly as possible, wake up the computer, and enter the numbers. Of course, by then, the code had expired.
Back to the effort to gain access to my email to retrieve the order number to return the package. Having Peaches warming my toes while I’m wrangling the laptop adds another layer of complexity to the operation. She likes to wrap around the back of the screen and gaze at me to remind me there are better things we could be doing. Apparently, her chin depressed the Caps Lock key, which resulted in multiple attempts to log in to my email with my all-caps password and hard-fought third-party verification code. I’ve been temporarily locked out of my account. They want to send me an email with a link to reset the password. Peaches is right. This project can wait until tomorrow.
Since I wrote the first part of this story, I updated the fingerprint scan with my calloused fingers so I could open my phone without having to resort to the tedious process described above. Meanwhile, Tracey kept coming at me with one of her many lotions to remedy the roughness. I’m usually able to stay out of her reach, but she got me while I was sleeping. My hands are smooth again, and now my phone no longer recognizes my fingerprint.
I think I’ll just drive to Walmart and return the package there.
Outside The Box 