I hate going into banks. It isn’t just the long lines – it’s that intense uneasy feeling that comes from talking to people through five inch thick, bulletproof plastic. Your brain can’t help but do the math:
So if you’re back there to protect you from harm… and I’m on THIS side of the glass…
I don’t want the ONE day a year I actually drag my ass into the bank to be Dog Day Afternoon.
Consequently, for the things I can’t do online, I use the drive thru. I don’t care if I have to take out a second mortgage, I’m going to at least TRY and do it by drive thru. I’ll send a vial of my own blood through that archaic-and-yet-somehow-still-amazing little vacuum tube if I have to, just to avoid going in the bank. Plus, I love the sssSWOOSH! noise it makes.
There is a science to using the drive through lanes. If I pull up and both lanes are occupied, I’ll hang back for as long as I can, like one of those female lions stalking that unsuspecting zebra chewing grass like he’s got all week to finish it. (spoiler alert: he doesn’t!) I wait to see which line is the better bet. When the shuttle whooshes back to one of the waiting cars, BAM! I pounce.
But, like those times the zebra trots off with only shallow claw mark on his rump, recently my plans went awry. Turns out the only thing worse than actually being in the bank, is stalking the cars occupying the drive thru lanes, pulling up behind the person who just got back the shuttle… and then watching helplessly as that person sends the shuttle BACK.
NO! I scream. NO REDOS! But there I sit, trapped now by other cars behind me, while this guy in front of me plays pass the note with the teller. “Hey baby, just CHECKING to see if you can go to lunch…I’m SAVINGS all my love for you…” Oh, how I hate that guy.
By the time it is my turn I’m in such a hurry to get out I accidentally forget to remove my receipt from the shuttle and instead just toss the whole container in the seat next to me and drive off. No longer am I a proud lioness. Now I’m like some cheeky cougar playing Petty Theft Scavenger Hunt with the boys in the neighborhood.
Mortified, I return the shuttle a few minutes later and slink off, like an embarrassed lioness with nothing to show for my efforts but a tuft of zebra fur under my claws.