The Public Eye

printed 01/24/2020

For a moment, I was concerned that someone had invaded my personal computer space and had learned things about me that even I didn’t know.

Of the 759 or so emails that flood my inbox every day — that’s why I don’t always respond in a timely fashion — one in particular stood out.

Unlike many of the other notes, inquiries and take-action-now alerts, this one purported to have details of a personal nature.

As I scrolled through the various toenail fungus advisories (always intriguing), declarations that Amelia Earhart is still alive (at a still-youngish 123 years of age,) and notices that “Ukrainian Women Are Waiting for You” (I just bet they are, those triflers), I came upon this from “You’re Entering Menopause.”

Gee. I guess that explains everything.

So, let’s see — Mood changes? Check. Sleep problems? Check. Weight gain and slowed metabolism? Check. And ... and ... what’s that? Mmmm. No.

Apparently, he, she or they Smartypants at were not expert enough to realize that this message was sent to me in error.

Besides, if they really had invaded my computer’s personal space, they still wouldn’t have known, as the song goes, “Is I is, or Is I Ain’t” a particular gender.

That’s because I’m scrupulous about keeping a clean machine, personal information-wise. And that’s not to mention that I have yet to reach that stage in life where I need to check my notes to remind me of who and what I am. I’m pretty sure I remain outfitted as I should be.

That day of doing the daily inventory will probably come, but in the meantime I’m confident that I would be aware of any new arrivals or departures, structurally speaking.

I will admit, however, to looking up the word “ulna,” as it sounds curious enough to warrant finding out whether it’s a common element of the species or something of a special order that’s not universally distributed.

Then too, it could just as easily be the first name of that Ukrainian person who’s been dropping me a line from time to time.

“Hi. My name is Ulna and I’m waiting for you.”

“Hi back. My name is Femur, and I’ve got a leg up on you.”

Just kidding. I know the ulna is my forearm bone and the femur is my thigh bone, although femur does sound like it might be a small monkey-like creature of the rainforest:

“Look, Stan, the femurs are playing in the jungle canopy.”

But that’s the thing about real names of body parts and the conditions they sometimes experience — they offer not even a hint about what their purpose or location might be, or what might befall them and you over time.

I’m not stupid, but it appears that might be. After all, if these shysters really did know something about me, and were trying to entice me into clicking the rest of my information away, they would not have taken that menopause shot in the dark, they would simply have said, “It’s Time for Lunch.”

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