The Bank

I had a day off from work today. What did I do? Well, I mainly lazed around reading books and watching TV and reading the newspaper and checking facebook and reading outside while watching the dogs out my peripheral. I did get some business-like stuff done, however; I did laundry and went to the bank.

I loathe the bank, despite the fact that it contains most of my life savings (or what's left of them after a year of college). The only thing I loathe more than the bank itself is going to the bank. For one thing, it's an extremely conspicuous place to go. I always feel like I have to dress up. The bank is no place for a messy ponytail and athletic shorts. Everyone watches you as you come in, you and your flip flops and your 'grown up' purse. They sit in cubicles with mugs of coffee, waiting for you to sit down in front of them in one of the conveniently-placed chairs.

If you don't sit down, however, if you're a disappointing teenager who only wants to put your latest paycheck into your savings account, they let their eyes slide past you onto the granite tile at your feet. You walk up to the counter and smile before sliding the check across. The teller is usually a pretty young woman. She's polite and asks you how you are as she zips your check through the computer. You don't answer. You're not supposed to, of course. If you've requested to receive some cash out of that paycheck, you have to wait while she counts it aloud for you. Then you have to fiddle with your wallet for a few tense seconds, trying to shove the bills in with the stray change and gum wrappers. The people behind you sigh and mentally tap their heels in your ear, and you finally finish and hurry away from the counter and through the door, feeling the air-conditioned chill slam you in the back as you leave. A final insult that reminds you that you're parked crookedly in the lot, and that you'll have another check to deposit in two weeks. Thank you, and come again.