I am afraid of banks for both justifiable and irrational reasons. I will not bore you with the reasons; the statement is just a premise you need to have in your head as I proceed.
Because I am my parents’ trustee (as a result either of my stupidity, my brother’s insuitability, my tendency to try to please, or some combination of these and/or other factors), I won a trip to Berkeley to make a large deposit into a brokerage account. The check in question was made out to me, as the Trustee. The account into which I deposited it has my parents’ names on it. Please note that I changed my name the first time I got married, so my last name matches my children, not my parents. This made me nervous. I do not like trying to explain things to banks.
To prepare myself, I dressed more nicely than I otherwise would have done on a rainy morning. I put on jewelry as an indicator that I am not an impoverished member of the proletariat trying to pull some scheme in which I benefit in some obscure way by depositing a check made out to me into someone else’s account. And, just in case, I took my cell phone in with me, knowing that if things did not go smoothly, I am possessed of two parents entirely willing to engage in discussion at high volume with anyone who impedes any iota of their progress down any path they choose to take. I breathed deeply.
And there was no problem at all. The woman behind the desk apologized for the delay of approximately 59 seconds in processing the deposit; her system was running slowly, she said. I took the receipt and left, before she changed her mind and insisted on fingerprinting, interrogating, and cavity-searching me. Did I mention that my fear of banks is sometimes irrational?
After this ordeal, I came home and did exactly nothing useful. This was my reward: my warmest sweater, a cozy blanket on the couch, and the second half of a murder mystery to read. (Like the fancy hairdo and new body I chose for myself in the picture?) Score one for positive reinforcement. I am a good dog.