When I woke up the other day, there were no obvious indicators that the banking industry had it in for me. So I got out of bed.
After breakfast, Sean and I set out on a few errands. Our first stop was the bank. I very seldom go to the bank any more, but I had a check that needed to be deposited and it was easier to zip through the drive through lane as we were out and about, rather than mailing it. Or so I thought.
I pulled into the drive-through and prided myself that I had managed to pull close enough to the “tube thing” to reach it. It seems that most of the time, I position the car too far away and then I have to unfasten my seatbelt, raise myself up just so and then hang out the window to grab the tube. And then do it all again to put the tube back in and send it away. And then do it a third time to retrieve the contents of the tube. And then a fourth time to put the tube back in place for the next banking customer. Banking yoga – it works the glutes, quads, triceps and stretching; develops that inner core strength we all need.
So I easily reach out my car window and grab the tube. I give the teller a little knowing wink and nod because even though I can’t see her, I can tell by the way she said “goodmorninghowareyou” that she is in awe of my pulling up to the tube thing skills.
I set the tube in my lap, twist off the top, tuck in my check and deposit slip, easily slip it back into its alcove and send it on its way. The teller does her thing and in minutes, the tube has returned. I reach out to welcome the tube back. The window magically slides open and I grab the tube. But the tube slips from my hand. It bounces one time and then rolls onto the ground where it wobbles back and forth for a second before deciding to make a run for it. And then it rolls out of sight and under the car.
But because I have with such great care and expertise pulled up so close to the “tube thing” — I can’t open my car door to see where it went.
Being an expert at Banking Yoga, I unfasten my seatbelt and lean out the window to see what I can see.
The tube has rolled under the car and is resting behind the front tire.
No problem. I will pull forward a little, jump out and get the tube. But every time I pull forward, the little tube pulls forward. I can’t go backwards because not only would that crush the tube, but I would have to some how get a message to the car behind me to back up and I happened to have left my bullhorn at home.
Now, it is on occasions such as this, that having a five-year-old in the backseat is immensely helpful. It is immensely helpful when one is busy humiliating oneself in front of strangers to have a five-year-old in the back seat asking repeatedly, “Mommy what are you doing? Mommy why did you throw the tube on the ground? Mommy, what’s happening?”
The teller, being the alert banking professional that she is, notices that something has gone awry. She gets on the loud speaker (aptly named because it can be heard in three counties) to inquire. “Ma’am, are you having a problem?” she blasts.
Unfortunately, in my attempt to retrieve the tube, I’ve moved my car far enough ahead that I now have to roll down and shout out of my back window. “Um, yes, I guess you could say that,” I holler in confession to her and all the other drive through banking customers.
“I seem to have dropped the tube and now it’s under my car and I can’t get it because I can’t get out of the car and I can’t back up and I can’t go forward, which is the story of my life, and I have a five-year-old in the back and he doesn’t understand and I’m on the last day of my estrogen patch and I’m having trouble and the tube… ITS ON THE GROUND and I’m trapped in my car!”
“Okay, ma’am, wait right there, don’t go anywhere,” she says, even though I felt I had made it clear I couldn’t go anywhere and that was exactly the problem.
Like the fairy Godmother in Cinderella minus the wand, the teller magically appears in a vapor of sparkles. She reaches under the car and retrieves the tube. She hands me the tube without berating me. I grab my deposit slip and hand the tube back. I smile. I thank her. I apologize. I thank her. She smiles, but without teeth. A no-teeth smile tells me that she woke up this morning hoping not to have to reach under someone’s car for the teller tube. She is polite. She does not laugh or say “What an idiot!” Out loud. She is a professional. I thank her again. And apologize.
As I drive away, I look down at my white Capri pants and there is a giant circle of ink on the zipper, right in the place where you wouldn’t want a giant circle of ink. A target, as it were.
In the shape of a teller tube.