The Administrative Burden of Being a Person
Friday morning, before I could begin the work I am actually paid to do, I needed to renew a prescription, reschedule a dental appointment, locate a tax receipt, return a pair of pants, update an expired credit card and prove to three websites that I was not a robot.
None of these tasks was difficult. That is part of the problem. Each should have taken five minutes. Together, they consumed the better part of a morning and left me with the curious exhaustion of someone who has accomplished almost nothing while being extremely busy.
The prescription renewal required me to contact the pharmacy, which directed me to the doctor, whose office directed me to an online portal. I had used it before, but not recently enough to remember the password.
I selected “Forgot password.”
The website emailed me a six-digit code, which expired before I returned to enter it. The second arrived promptly, but my new password could not resemble any of my previous five.
Eventually, I created one containing a capital letter, a number, a symbol, a minor character from a Russian novel and what remained of my will to live.
The appointment took four minutes.
I would like to spend less of my remaining life proving to websites that I am not a robot.
I would also like to stop receiving emails with the subject line “Action Required.”
Action is always required.
My bank requires me to review its new terms. My airline requires me to confirm my travel details. My phone requires an update. My computer requires a restart. My insurance provider requires supporting documentation. My dentist requires my benefits information, although I have attended the same office with the same benefits for years.
The grocery store would like me to download its app.
The parking meter would like me to download its app.
There was a time when you called the dentist and a person answered. You told her your name. She found an opening. You wrote it on the calendar.
Now a recorded voice asks you to listen carefully because the options have recently changed. The options have always recently changed.
You press one, then three, then remain on hold long enough to hear an instrumental version of a song you once loved. Eventually, the call disconnects and you are encouraged to book online.
This is described as convenience.
Then there is the work that does not arrive by email. The work of noticing.
The furnace filter needs replacing.
The car is making a noise.
There are no more dishwasher tablets.
Someone needs a reference letter.
There is a mysterious charge on the credit card.
The gutter is growing a small but ambitious garden.
The administrative burden is not simply completing these tasks. It is remembering that they exist: knowing when they are due, where the document is, which password belongs to which portal and whether the person you contacted last Tuesday ever replied.
It is carrying the invisible master list.
In many families, that list lives primarily in the head of one person. Often a woman. Often a very competent woman who has become so good at managing the machinery of daily life that no one else can see it.
Things simply happen.
The appointment is booked.
The form is submitted.
The prescription is ready.
The family arrives at the airport with valid passports and weather-appropriate clothing.
This can look effortless. It is not. It is the result of one person quietly serving as chief operating officer of a small and poorly governed organization.
Other people may be happy to help.
“Just tell me what you need me to do,” they say.
This sounds generous until you realize that you must still notice the problem, determine the solution, assign the work, explain the task and follow up.
You are not being helped.
You have acquired an intern.
I say this as someone with excellent systems.
I have calendars, lists, labelled folders and reminders set to remind me about other reminders. I own a filing cabinet containing warranties for appliances we no longer own.
Somewhere in my house is a folder called Important Documents. There may even be important documents in it.
The problem is not that I have failed to organize my life properly.
The problem is that life requires this much organization.
There is always a form to complete, an account to update, a policy to review or a service to renew. Every object we own comes trailing its own small cloud of administration.
Even getting rid of things requires work.
You cannot simply stop using a service. You must log in, find Account Settings, select Manage Membership, scroll past several offers and locate the faint grey sentence that says, “Thinking of leaving us?”
Yes.
I am thinking of leaving you.
I have been thinking of leaving you since the second screen.
The service then asks why. It offers several options, none of which is: Because cancelling this subscription has become the central project of my afternoon.
Perhaps this is why small administrative failures feel so disproportionately devastating.
The forgotten password. The missed return window. The form sent back because one box was unchecked. The parking ticket incurred while trying to pay through an app that insisted your vehicle did not exist.
It is not one inconvenience that breaks us.
It is the accumulation.
Behind every completed task, three more quietly appear.
I used to believe the answer was to become more efficient.
A better system. A cleaner inbox. A designated hour each week for life administration, preferably accompanied by tea and a sense of moral superiority.
But I no longer think the solution to every demand is becoming better at meeting it.
Sometimes the solution is deciding that the demand does not deserve you.
Not every notification is an instruction.
Not every email marked urgent is urgent.
The points can expire.
The survey can go unanswered.
The app does not need access to your contacts.
There is freedom in becoming slightly less administratively excellent.
Not negligent. Not reckless. Just less willing to treat every small request as a summons.
I am not looking for another system. I have systems. What I want is a life that asks slightly less of me before allowing me to live it.
Somewhere, at this very moment, a password is about to expire.
I wish it well.
~ Danielle
The Midlife Syllabus
Lesson #31:
Let one loyalty program expire without intervention.
Beauty, Grace & Daily Artistry
A small, imperfect pleasure:
Have I told you about the hummingbird nest in my rhododendron?
The babies have hatched.
What I’m Reading, Watching or Listening to
Reading
Anna: The Biography.
A Work in Progress
If you liked this, you may like the book I am finishing. It is called The Yin of It All. Coming soon.