There was a time when reading the newspaper was simple. You picked it up off the driveway, shook a suspicious amount of moisture off the plastic bag, and carried it inside like a responsible adult who cared about current events and grocery coupons. You unfolded it at the kitchen table, accidentally flung the sports section onto the floor, and spent the next hour with black ink slowly transferring itself onto your fingertips, coffee mug, and, somehow, your forehead.

It was beautiful.

Now reading the newspaper requires twelve passwords, facial recognition, and the patience of a hostage negotiator.

The other day, I decided I wanted to read an article online. Just one article. I clicked the link and was immediately greeted by a pop-up asking if I’d like to subscribe.

Um, no, thank you, I already DO subscribe. No telling how many things I’ve subscribed to by accidentally clicking the wrong button. I’m probably financially supporting six streaming services, three charities, two magazines, and one mysterious company that keeps sending me vitamins I never ordered. I clicked the tiny “Continue Reading” button hidden somewhere beneath an ad for orthopedic shoes.

Then another window appeared: Please enter your password. What? Why? Of course, I couldn’t remember the first password I set way back when I established the account (or, more likely, Hubby originally set up the account and created a password that would make no sense to anyone but him, like the helicopter he flew in 1977). Nothing I entered worked. So, I did what I always do: clicked “Forgot Password.” (How I dislike these sites that won’t automatically remember my password for me!) As if my brain isn’t full enough of useless information, such as the telephone number from when I was a kid.

Next, I had to figure out which email account the new reset password went to. I finally found it and tried resetting the password with my standard, reliable one that I use for everything. Nope. Not good enough.

Password must contain:

<ul> <li>one uppercase letter</li> <li>one lowercase letter</li> <li>one number</li> <li>one symbol</li> <li>one hieroglyphic</li> <li>the blood type of your firstborn child.” (Did that count if my child is adopted?)</li> </ul>

After twenty minutes, I finally created a password so secure that even I had no idea what it was. But I scribbled it down on a scrap piece of paper so I wouldn’t forget. Then came the verification code. Why must everything now involve a verification code? I’m trying to read about potholes downtown, not access nuclear launch codes. The code was texted to Hubby’s phone, which was somewhere with him in a place where he couldn’t readily respond.

By this point, I could have driven to the newspaper office, interviewed the editor personally, and helped set up the printing press.

Eventually, I got in. Victory. Except the article itself was impossible to read because ads kept leaping around the screen like caffeinated squirrels. Every time I tried to click on the story, I accidentally opened an ad for walk-in bathtubs. The internet has apparently decided that because I’m over fifty, I spend my free time comparing hearing aids and researching “easy-to-chew dinner recipes.”

Then the video started automatically. Nothing makes a person feel old like frantically trying to find the mute button while a loud commercial screams: “ARE YOU MISSING TEETH?” No, but I might be soon, as I’m seriously contemplating banging my head against the computer. Then, without warning, I was suddenly reading, “YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT THIS FORMER CHILD STAR LOOKS LIKE NOW.” So naturally, I had to click on the link to see how badly stars I had never heard of have aged, so I can judge them.

Honestly, after the stress of logging in, I barely remember what article I wanted to read in the first place. At one point, I became so distracted by pop-ups, cookie permissions, auto-play videos, and blinking advertisements that I may have accidentally subscribed to a gardening newsletter and purchased a discounted fleece vest.

I know I’m dating myself, but I firmly believe that newspapers should arrive folded neatly on the porch as the Good Lord intended. Sure, the old paper newspapers had problems. They piled up. They cluttered the garage. And if you tried reading one during breakfast, someone would always steal the section you wanted and spill syrup on it. But they made great birdcage liners, and never once asked me to “Select all images containing traffic lights.”

I miss simpler times. Times when “cookies” were something you ate while reading the comics instead of something you had to reject 47 times before reading the weather forecast.