My friend Megan has been begging me to write about the time I fell at my bank.
Megan, for some reason, loves stories that involve me falling, or having to poop. I think this says more about her than it does about me.
I think it’s because a lot of Megan’s embarrassing stories happened right in front of me. And maybe, on occasion, I’ve had too much to drink and started telling said stories at parties. To everyone.
Luckily for her, a handful of MY most embarrassing stories happened in her presence — so we have an sort of story-telling truce. Also, I love her, and she’s nicer than me. So she keeps the worst ones to herself.
So, anyway… the bank.
I should preface this story by telling you that I despise my bank. Every time I have to go there, something goes wrong, and it turns into a giant hassle. Why don’t I just switch banks?! Well, I can’t, or I would have years ago.
See, we own a rental property. Yes, we’re fancy-pants, and have two houses. I assure you, it’s not as lucrative as it sounds — thanks, economy!! — and by that, I mean it’s not really lucrative at all. We just can’t afford to sell it, and it’s in a great location, and we have good tenants, blah blah blah. Anyway — there’s a random law in the great state of Maryland that says all security deposits must be held in a brick-and-mortar bank within the state. Hence my stupid bank account.
So, I go to the bank one rainy afternoon to deposit that aforementioned security deposit from our new renters.
Also, “rainy” is an understatement — it’s pouring. And I know from a handful of other near-falls that the shoes I’m wearing are treacherous when wet and on a tile floor.
So, I walk in the door, where they have about a two foot wide section of carpet just inside the bank. I wipe my feet, like a lady.
I start to walk across the room to the teller windows, and immediately slip, and bust my ass on the floor. At lunchtime. In front of a crowd.
The genius sitting at the information desk says to me, “Careful, it’s slippery.” While I’m already laying on the floor.
“Uhhhh, do you think so?!” I
sort of yelled at her.
A normal person would get up, and try to salvage any dignity they had left, and — you know — make their mother proud.
I got up, spewing profanity, and kicked off my shoes.
Across the room.
Then I stomped over to them, snatched them off the floor, and walked over to fill out a deposit slip — dropping my shoes, purse, and soaking wet umbrella into a heap in the middle of the floor.
I got in line, and waited my turn — leaving all my shit where I dropped it.
No one spoke to me, obviously.
The line was pretty long, so I was still standing there while the next few people came in and got in line. And, one-by-one, they all looked at my pile of crap, and took off their shoes. People started leaving their shoes and umbrellas next to mine on the floor! I accidentally started some sort of shoeless revolt!
After I took care of my banking needs, I collected my things and walked towards the world’s smallest, most inefficient, carpet to put my shoes back on.
That was when the Bank Manager caught up to me. I’m sure he was terrified I’d try to sue them. Because, clearly I’d been acting like a rational person the entire time I was there.
“Ma’am, I understand that you fell?”
“You understand correctly.”
“I just wanted you to know we put up a wet floor sign.”
“Oh, good for you. Maybe you could — oh I don’t know — CARPET THE FLOOR!” I yelled (again) like a lady.
Stomp, stomp, stomp.
I can never go back there.