Does Membership have its Privileges?

Everyone knows that going to work where I do every day is the major compromise of my life. I’ve given up the freedom to do what I want when I want for the security of a few dollars and a dental and vision plan for my family. Well, last week, the compromise was ratcheted up a notch as I was required to give up my anonymity for all time.

Employees and visitors have always been required to show identification to get into the IRS building. To this point in my career, I’ve had to flash an ID card containing a photograph of me taken when I first accepted the job eight years ago at a disinterested rent-a-guard. Then I am free to enter and use whichever of the many conveniently located toilets on any of the seven floors of the building – no questions asked.

A year or so ago, I lost my ID card and had to get a new one. I made an appointment with security and figured I would have to sit for a photo and then come back in a day or two for a new card. But instead, when I walked in for my appointment, they handed me a new badge with the same eight-year-old photo. They didn’t even ask for an ID to confirm that it was me they were handing the ID card too.

I guess this isn’t really a problem with the likes of me. I look almost exactly the same now as I did eight years ago – bald. But my boss who has been here for 30+ years is still walking around with a photo of herself from 1982. Trust me, she does not look the same now as she did in 1982. No one would have hired her if she did.

So anyway, to make a short story long, last week I got an email that I had to go to Room 1102 for my “enrollment card” – which I’ve learned is the new name for an ID card.

Since I am employed here and want to remain so, I didn’t think I had any choice but to make an appointment and show up when the time came. So, that’s what I did.

During my appointment, I had to sit for a photo. I had to update all of my contact information. Then, I was fingerprinted on a digital machine with an ominous red light that turned green after it had successfully created a computer file of my prints for the United States government to maintain until the next big bang. Understandably, I felt like Winston Smith agreeing to constant surveillance by Big Brother.

When I was a fresh-faced attorney clerking for Judge Pizzuto at the New Jersey Tax Court, he told me that you’ve made it professionally when you have your own private bathroom and parking space. I’m optimistic that my enrollment card membership means that I have arrived.