Identity theft: the most existential kind

The details of my identity theft problem are not so interesting except inasmuch as they reveal little details about my identity.

Minutes ago, in my opening post, I explained how I hoped putting up a Medium.com publication would compel me, by way of equivocation, to implicate more and more dirty little secrets about myself that I want to get out into the open.

Well, I can begin that equivocation by telling you about the small and unfolding misfortune that precipitated my uninvited confession.

I seem to be one of the latest victims of identity theft — or at least, attempted identity theft. I’m not so sure what those scoundrels are up to, or if they even really exist.

The only evidence I have that they might be out there, hatching their fucked-up little schemes, is: (1) I know they are out there: identity theft happens someone, so why not me? (2) An out-of-the-blue call from my family’s tax preparer.

Apparently, there’s trouble filing my tax return because somebody else seems to have tried already. But the details of my identity theft problem are not so interesting except inasmuch as they reveal some details about my identity.

The first and greatest admission I have to make here is that I am privileged. Comfortable. I benefit hugely from the class structure in this country. I try to have no delusions about it. But there it is.

As a result, I was raised to be pretty inattentive with money. Little things like having to check my credit report or file my taxes freak me out.

I sense that stupid little practicalities like this upset most people, and exposure to them calms that anxiety. But here’s the point, guys: somebody tried to steal my identity. I’m tripped out — and this seems to happen to tons of people all the time, judging by the startling availability of federal resources for the problem. And me, in my privilege… I have time, bandwidth, and present, caring parents to deal with it.

Maybe this is part of my christening into adulthood: an ice-cream-scoop of financial paperwork to dump onto a growing pile, a thin film of accumulating errands I should take care of, but probably won’t.

With that in mind, I should get off the blog and take care of this thing… or maybe not.