No, the butt of interest is not either of my children’s, but mine. Here’s the thing: at some point post-conception, it no longer became a bizarre thing for the bank teller to look out the window at the drive-through and be greeted not with an image of my sweet smiling face, but rather of my butt, high and mighty in the air. Why, you ask? I don’t have an exact explanation. Chalk it up to stray sippy cups fallen behind the seats, a desperate need to make a swipe at the spit-up fountain or general psychosis on my part–whatever works. It doesn’t actually matter WHY I do this that throws me, it’s that it no longer bothers me THAT I do this. Should it not be disconcerting to virtually “present” oneself to a stranger by way of greeting??
So I’m sorry, dear Wells Fargo employees. Please consider this an apology and a love letter all in one. I am apologize for shoving my rear end in your face. While I can’t promise it won’t happen again, I forgive you for the messy time-consuming transition from Wachovia (yes, was most definitely grumpy about that one for months). I would also like to take this opportunity to profess my adoration for your institution. You see, there is simply no other errand I can run that allows me to feel accomplished and healthily fast food junk-free without–the key golden ticket here!–taking my children out of their car seats. We adore you, our beloved (as my son says), “bank machine!”
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