Yesterday, I was forced to act like an adult, and I was not pleased. Apparently the universe is under some delusion that I am an adult. Where they would get such a ridiculous idea, I do not know. I don't even play one on t.v.!
Okay, sure, one day I turned eighteen, and then eventually 21, and then 25 was all, "hey, hey, hey you're halfway to 50!" and then 28 led to 29 which will lead to ages of which WE SHALL NEVER SPEAK. But I hardly think a mere number qualifies me for being responsible.
I mean seriously, I didn't stop peeing my pants until I was nineteen.
Oh stop judging me. It only happens when I laugh really, really, really hard and the fact that I haven't had an "incident" in ten years means life has just gotten too damn serious.
So, the husband calls me with an urgent tone and begins talking urgently about things that sound rather urgent. Something about money, and bank account, and not enough money, and a mistake, and transfers, and more scheduled transfers, and was all, "you have to take care of this right away."
And I was all, "crapdammit!" because I knew this was one of those things I had to deal with. I couldn't just ignore it, like a clogged drain, or dishes in the sick, or a broken garage door, or those rats currently making a nest in the corner.
I dragged my ass out of bed, which, I might add, is noteworthy for two reasons: It was before noon and I had cramps like a mo-fo.
I would also like to add that I would just love to see men try to act all adult-like when it feels like their uterus is being wrung out like a wet towel.
Let’s all take a moment to appreciate that visual.
And so began the phone calls and the searches for paperwork and logging into accounts and forgetting passwords and trudging upstairs, then downstairs and more phone calls, and back upstairs again and oh this is the wrong paperwork, back downstairs again and OMG WHERE THE HELL DID ALL THESE STAIRS COME FROM! and being on hold for twenty minutes and then accidentally hanging up on customer service and WHY THE HELL AM I DOING ALL THIS BEFORE I’VE HAD MY COFFEE!!
Finally. FINALLY! All that nonsense was finished but the adult-like fun wasn’t over. I had to go to the bank.
That’s right. I had to get dressed and leave my house. I didn’t touch my hair, didn’t put on makeup, and slipped my chipped toe-nail polished feet into some beach sandals. I looked like hell, but who cares? All I needed to do was make a deposit at the ATM. I had absolutely NO PLANS to get out of my car and engage with other human beings.
But you know what they say: When man plans, the bank says f*ck you.
I get to the bank, insert my ATM card and the machine spits it back out. My card is expired, because of course it is.
I am forced to go inside and deal with a human. Without makeup. With my hair a mess. With chipped-toe nail polish. With a uterus that’s been wadded up like garbage and tossed about my insides.
Human: I see you would like to make a deposit. Do you have a deposit slip?
Human: No problem. Just fill this out and hand me your I.D.
I begin filling out the form when suddenly I am bombarded by people. One snips a strand of hair, another sticks me with needles and starts drawing blood while another takes my fingerprints and yet another swabs the inside of my cheek.
Me: What the hell is going on!
Human: You didn’t bring your own deposit slip. We’re just verifying you are who you say you are.
Me: Is this really necessary? I’m depositing money, not trying to empty my bank account.
Human: Standard security procedures.
A woman holding a Q-tip tells me to spread my legs.
Her: Vagina swab.
Me: Are you freaking kidding me!
Human: Sorry for the intrusion ma’am. Our vagina swabbers used to be much stealthier, our customers didn’t even know they were being swabbed. Get in, Get out. That’s our motto. Well, it used to be, but well, bad economy, lay-offs, Wall Street, Lehman Brothers, Morgan Stanley, Charles Schwab…
Me: Okay, now you’re just naming financial institutions. None of which have anything to do with my vagina being probed with a Q-tip.
Human: Actually ma’am, it has everything to do with it. You see…
Me: You know what? I don’t care. Swab me. Poke me. Prod me. Do whatever you gotta do in order to take my damn money and let me out of here.
Human: As you wish, madam.
And so I spread my legs...
Okay, that didn't actually happen. But every time, EVERY TIME! I go to my bank, I leave feeling like I've been seven kinds of violated.
Being an adult is fun!
I wonder what next week has in store. Anal probe by my insurance company?