Downbeat: I Miss Simple Logins: When Password123 Felt Like Fort Knox

Password resets: the new cardio for retirees.

Feb 17, 2026

Over the last 15 years, security got stronger. My memory did not.

I remember when my dog’s name was my password for everything.

Email. Bank. Amazon. Probably nuclear launch codes. One password. Simple. Elegant. Secure enough, at least in my mind. I was smug about it.

I figured as long as nobody knew my dog’s name, which I announced loudly at the dog park every morning, I was basically Fort Knox.

Then cybercrime showed up.

Suddenly every account wanted a new password every three months. Then every month. Then every time Mercury did anything at all.

Before long, I had a spreadsheet of passwords that all looked suspiciously alike. Ten creative variations of my dog’s name, a few numbers I recognized, a few I didn’t, and at least one symbol I’m pretty sure I never typed on purpose. Somewhere in there is a password that’s just my thumb slipping and a quiet whisper of, “good enough.”

Eventually, I surrendered. I let Google generate my passwords, which now look like this:

ijL143001((%>#eeWTF?&8**vs

That’s not a password. That’s a keyboard falling down the stairs. That’s what you text someone when you sit on your phone.

And if that wasn’t enough, you also have to pass the “security questions,” which used to be straightforward. Mother’s maiden name. First pet. High school mascot. Easy.

Now they feel like a psychological evaluation written by someone who has never enjoyed a peaceful afternoon.

“What was the name of the street you lived on when you were eight, but only if you spell it the way you thought it was spelled at the time?”

“Which of these words appeared in your first email address in 1999?”

“What color socks were you wearing the first time you locked yourself out of your car?”

At this point I’m not proving I’m human. I’m proving I’m willing to suffer for access to my own electric bill.

And once you survive that, congratulations, you’ve made it to the bonus round:

Please select all images that contain a traffic light.
No, not that one.
Definitely not that one.
Why would you click the fire hydrant, you absolute maniac?

This is not progress. This is endurance training.

So I did what any mature adult would do. I subscribed to a “Password Management Program”, chose one master password and told myself, confidently, “This time I’ll remember it.”
Reader, I have not remembered it.

I now have a whole relationship with “Forgot Password.” We’re basically pen pals. I see it more than some of my neighbors. It greets me warmly. It doesn’t judge me. It just quietly asks me to click a link and reconsider my life choices.

And the idea of a “master password” sounds powerful until you realize you’ve created a single point of failure for your entire digital existence. It’s like saying, “I’m simplifying!” and then putting every key you own on one ring and tossing it into a lake for fun.

Every website has different rules too. Always changing. Like they’re all in a secret club.

“Must be at least 12 characters.”
“Must contain an uppercase letter.”
“Must contain a lowercase letter.”
“Must contain a number.”
“Must contain a special character.”
“Must not contain a special character we don’t like.”

And the clincher: “Must not be similar to your last 14 passwords.”

At some point, the password isn’t protecting me from hackers. It’s protecting the website from me logging in.

People say, “Write it down somewhere safe.” Great. I’ll put it in the same place I keep spare batteries, reading glasses, and my will to live: a drawer full of mystery cords, inkless pens, and old takeout menus.

So I’ve developed a system. Not a good system. A retirement system. The kind you don’t understand, you just don’t touch.

Password Version one.
Password Version one with an exclamation point.
Password Version one with 2 exclamation points.

Password Version one with a number I swear I’ll remember.
Password Version one with a number I have never seen before.

It’s like I’m naming hurricanes.

And every so often, a website decides it’s time for a change and forces me to “update my password,” which is a fun phrase because it assumes I know my current password. That’s like asking me what I had for lunch in 2012.

So yes. My password used to make sense.
Now it feels like a pop quiz administered by a robot that hates retirees.

Still, there’s something comforting about the idea that somewhere out there, a hacker is staring at my password and thinking, “You know what? This guy’s already fighting enough battles.”

Now if you’ll excuse me, I just got a message that I need to reset my password.
Again.

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