I am becoming invisible. This is not a function of age, although, as a woman of a “certain” age, I have been warned about my impending invisibility.

No, my pending invisibility is a direct result of American security policy. At least that’s who I’m blaming. And my local postal carrier confirmed it: nothing stands between me and invisibility, except for an envelope that will be delivered, possibly, on an undetermined day sometime in the near future.

It all started innocently enough. I was moving. Changing address. Same city. Got to keep the same phone number but had to inform Canada Post because, God forbid Revenue Canada should lose sight of me.

Why is it that, just when you think you have plumbed the depths of the madness of our governments and their agencies, there is another turning in the path of their labyrinthine minds, and greater madness is encountered? Have you tried to change your address with Canada Post lately?

A word of warning, if you don’t have a driver’s license, a health card with a picture or a birth certificate: you can be prepared to forgo the joy of “purchasing the Change of Address Service.”

I don’t drive. I have never driven. Like all 16 year olds I too attempted this North American right of passage. But the dead bunny, and the enduring image of my mother âe” pre-seat belt laws âe” hurtling toward the windscreen as I slammed on the brakes in a misguided attempt to avoid said bunny, forestalled my entrance into adulthood.

In fact, for anyone looking to offset their carbon footprint, I’m thinking of selling off points. I should be thanked for keeping our air free of pollutants and our roads free of yet another incompetent driver. But no thanks from Canada Post.

I have a perfectly valid health card. But alas, maybe because my last name begins with a ‘W,’ I never got that new one with the picture.

I have a perfectly good birth certificate. And, given that I was born the summer that the McCarthy hearings started, it is surprising that no one thought to take my picture so I could be tracked as a potential Communist.

In a final bid to win over the local Postmistress to allow me to pay to have my address changed, I pulled out The Miracle on 34th Street Defence: U.S. Postal Service vs. Santa Claus. “Ah hah,” I said. “What about the hundreds, if not thousands of letters Canada Post has delivered to me, trusting that yes, I was indeed Lynda Weston. If you can’t believe in yourselves, who can you believe?”

In a clear violation of secret protocol to which only certified Post people are party, she leaned conspiratorially across the counter and whispered: “I asked them if my mother, who doesn’t have a driver’s license because she doesn’t drive anymore and who doesn’t have a passport ’cause she isn’t going anywhere, wanted to change her address, would they accept my vouching for her.” “And they said?” I asked. “They said, ‘No.'” So there, she was saying, go whistle down the wind.

The change of address and a couple of other glitches in everyday life finally convinced me I had to shell out over $100 âe” which is lot for someone still struggling to reach the poverty line âe” to apply for a new passport just to prove I am who I’ve always been. (I’m not even going to go near the metaphysical and philosophical aspects of this.) Alas my old passport expired over five years ago, so it was the long form for me.

Duly completed, I placed all the bits and bobs of my earthly existence which lay claim to the existence of one Lynda Weston into the envelope. Only as I went to seal it up did I notice the LARGE BLACK LETTERING on the front of the envelope which says âe” for all potential identity thieves to read âe” CANADA PASSPORT APPLICATION FOR 18 YEARS AND OLDER.

At the post office a new postmistress âe” I think maybe the older one took stress leave âe” cheerfully said, “Yes that’s the envelope you’re meant to use.” But, but. “Oh I know,” she said, “The only thing you can do is register it and then track it.” So, shelling out yet more money, I released my entire identity into the hands of that same Canada Post who refuses to acknowledge my existence.

Then like a terrier on the trail of a rat I tracked that sucker through the Internet. While tracking on the Canada Post site, I saw a little box for, yes, Change of Address. I clicked on the box thinking I could have done this all online and wouldn’t have to keep bugging my former landlord for missed mail. I checked out the “Things to have available” while changing your address online. “Knowledge of your recent credit history” was not something I would have thought necessary. But, then, clearly I have entered the world of the insane.

I was however assured when I was able to see the actual signature of the, presumably, “real” person who had signed for my invaluable package. I thought I could rest easy for a bit. I was wrong.

At three in the morning, I woke in a cold sweat. I, like many Canadians including postal delivery people, work during the day. I am not home when the mail arrives. If I am not home, my inflamed little worse case scenario went, and I have to sign for my passport and I can’t sign because I’m working and they take the passport back to the Post Office and I have to pick it up thereâe¦ how will I prove who I am?

“I can see your dilemma,” my postman said with the twinkly-eyed delight of the sheer absurdity of it all. “All I can say is you better be home.”

Resistance clearly is futile.

Lynda Weston

Lynda Weston is spiritual care coordinator for a long term care facility and a freelance writer/editor living in Stratford Ontario. In a past life she was theatre critic for the Stratford Beacon...