When I paid a recent bill, I glanced over the checklist on the envelope and noticed something different. Along with the usual reminders to sign the check, include the billing notice, and skip the staples and paper clips, there was a chore I'd omitted. I'd already written my phone number on the memo line, but they wanted an18-digit account number instead, so I had to find a different place for that. The number was so long I almost ran out of space. "What is this," I thought, "a copying test?"

In olden days, scribes made copies. Now we have machines to do such things, or at least I thought we did.

To top it off, it was one of those numbers with a string of zeros at the beginning. I can't always tell at a glance how many there are. When I see them in a customer number on an order form, for example, I usually figure that a few less or a few more nothings in front won't make that much difference, as the closing digits are surely the ones that count. However, for the sake of accuracy, I get out my fingernail and move it along from zero to zero, counting as I go, in order to determine the exact number so I can reproduce them somewhere else.

Another recent numerical encounter was unwelcome for its lack of explanatory words, although it came from no less than a book publisher. I received a statement about account credits and debits on CO2501419, CO2501419 and CM335238. From that, I couldn’t tell what I had bought. A number by any other name might have actually said what it was talking about. The word "publishing" in the company name at the top of the paper was a clue to what the listings meant, but there had been mix-ups with book orders from different publishers at about the same time (eight months ago), so I had to check the company names in the books themselves to figure out which billing story still needed an ending according to the numbers in their records, though not according to the numbers in mine.

Then there was the Sunday afternoon when I decided to use a pre-paid phone card that was due to expire on — you guessed it: another number — 01/31/2001. Considering all the numerals involved in the card process, I typed and stored an 11-digit toll-free number, a 13-digit PIN and the 10-digit phone number I wished to contact. Then I called an 11-digit number, different from the customary relay number which I have conveniently stored in the phone memory, before sending the memo with the other 34 numerals. If I had wanted to make it more interesting, I could have included 26 additional digits for the PINs on two other cards with a few minutes remaining. Then I could have talked a little longer and finished all three cards, but it hardly seemed worth the effort to type the digits.

It's not unusual for people to lament or joke about the proliferation of identifying numbers required to do everyday business. To function efficiently in today's society, people memorize numbers including security system and lock codes, ATM PINs, computer passwords, Social Security number, home and work phone numbers, and numbers in addresses.

Most of us have learned to keep the most basic alphanumeric combinations in mind and let automation handle the rest. In fact, I've come to depend on computerized storage of so many numbers for telephoning and mailing that I occasionally wonder if I have enough of them stored in my own memory so that I could get by in an emergency situation when I might not have access to any such information stored electronically or on paper.

Enumerating the problem on a personal level, I estimated that the primary groups of digits I keep on the tip of my tongue and on my fingertips total 100 to 150 numerals. I also carry around a mental collection of expired numbers, such as ZIP codes where I no longer live and even my dad's Social Security number, which I may have memorized before my own (in order to be one of his backup number-retrieval systems) and which includes enough similarities to mine to keep me entertained and second-guessing myself ever since.

Until my mind goes blank numerically or until biometric identification takes over with intimate knowledge of my iris, retina, voice characteristics, or the geometry of my hands or my head, wherein the routine numbers are stored, such retrieval will probably continue to be second nature, so I suppose a mere 18-digit copy job isn't a No. 1 problem.

I still think there should be a better way, but I wouldn't count on it yet.