My identity got stolen last week. Someone called my credit card company impersonating me and told them “I” had a new address and phone number and was about to embark on some travel. They also changed my online username to something with a bunch of random numbers tacked on at the end, which, hello? I would never do. So clunky, that.
“I” then bought $600 worth of stuff from Bloomingdale’s—were they aware of my preference for brown leather boots, long flowy cardigans, and colorful, vaguely bohemian purses? When Bloomingdales called me to check up on the situation (apparently it’s unusual for first-time shoppers to drop $600 at Bloomies or something—or maybe it’s unusual for Nigerian princes to shop there?) it didn’t even occur to me to ask what my thief bought because, hello, that would be personal! What if they bought, like, a bunch of prosthetic post-mastectomy bras or something? Not that those should be embarrassing—just, you know, personal.
photo courtesy nacu, morgueFile