Social Insecurity Card

Before moving to Miami back in March, I’d visited here only once before. It was 2001, the summer before my junior year of college, and me and three of my friends flew down for a long weekend of blowing off steam before the start of senior year.

This was back before the internet became as prevalent as it is today, though my friends and I considered ourselves ahead of the curve and booked our flights on cheaptickets.com and got our hotel room from hotels.com. Not knowing anything about the city, we inadvertently booked ourselves a room at a hotel some 50 blocks north of South Beach, where all the “partying” we had planned on was happening.

So while it wasn’t non-stop booze-addled revelry like we originally planned, there was still one night we chose as the designated “party” night. It started (like all things in college do) with a bathtub filled with ice and beer in the hotel room, followed by a cab to South Beach. We ended up at Miami’s historic Clevelander hotel/club. I remember it being so packed that I considered doing that thing where you “moo” while you shuffle along with the crowd, until I looked to my right and saw one of the biggest black men of my life and was suddenly worried that it would somehow sound racist.

Once we were inside, we drank and danced and flirted with (read: pointed to) women. At the time, I wasn’t the best at picking up girls (I once cut a girl off mid-sentence to tell her that I like-liked her), but when in Miami, do as the whores. I picked out a girl at the bar (not dancing=less intimidating) and decided to work my charm.

After an awkward introduction about buying her a sink (it was really loud) I found out that her name was Katie and she was from Alabama. Plagued with a rudimentary understanding of geography, I asked her if she lived on a farm. She said she did, and I was intrigued.

Just then, my friends told me they were ready to move on to somewhere less stabby. In a rush, knowing that this was my one chance to meet the farm girl of my dreams, I asked for her number. She had a pen, but nothing to write on. So I pulled out the only piece of scrap paper available to me – my social security card.

There have been many times throughout the years where I have looked at the card and chuckled, “Oh, youth!” Luckily, you don’t really need your social security card for anything. It’s not like a passport or a birth certificate. All you need is the number, and once you’ve committed that to memory during college orientation you’re all set.

WRONG.

Last week, I had to fill out some forms for work. I received an email from HR with the forms to be completed and the instructions for what to send back: signed copies, updated contact information, and a copy of your social security card.

WHAT? You mean you actually need the card for something? IT’S NOT EVEN LAMINATED. Color me ignorant, but if the government wants you to hold on to a something for what might be the next 100 years, shouldn’t it be printed on a material that won’t biodegrade by the time you’re 70?

Reluctantly, I scanned in my social security card and sent it in with the following note:

Attached are all the forms you requested. Please let me know if I overlooked anything. Also, please disregard the girl’s phone number on my social security card. I was young, on vacation, and apparently lacking scrap paper.

Thanks,
Dan

Out of curiosity, I called the number five minutes ago (with my number blocked, of course). It went directly to the voice mailbox of a bubbly girl named Rachel, who implored me in a thick Southern drawl to “leave a message and she’ll hit me back.” Guess Katie died. Sad.