Going to the bank means that you aren’t paying ATM fees, so you’re saving money. I also go to the bank to do things like talk to someone about my CDs. Can’t do that online or with an ATM.
See, but the bank keeps trying to get me to sign up for their latest credit card. I have all the plastic I need. I don’t want any more. I just want to get some stupid rolls of quarters. And the times I’ve had to pay ATM fees, I’d have spent a lot more money getting to an actual branch.
Under its former name, my bank charged me several dollars if I made “too many” counter visits in one month. I don’t think they’ve started with the ATM fees yet; then again, I pretty much just use that for deposits and withdrawals. They used to charge for getting a mini-statement at the ATM; I’m guessing they still do. The fee that really bothers me is their returned check image fee; my mother writes a grand total of two checks per month (one to a dog rescue, and one to the lawn care people), and the bank charges $2 on each statement for printing these check images.
Seems a lot of y’all are seeing the message as different than I did. In my mind, “Being an adult” means doing things you don’t like to do. If you actually enjoy going to the bank or chores or whatever, then you aren’t being an adult by doing them.
I identify with this not because I don’t like to do adult things, but because I do have a procrastination problem, and I do try to reward myself with breaks after doing something I don’t like. I’m still not where I can do things I don’t like and feel like that’s just normal.
Nope. I never bothered trying to be responsible.
I’m pretty sure this is the defining post between “people that don’t get it” and people that do.
It’s not about the bank. The bank is just a placeholder. It’s about the little things that need to get done to keep yourself functioning in society.
Might be going to the bank. Cutting your toenails. Taking out the rubbish. The whole point is, they’re not difficult. It might take you all of thirty seconds to answer that email. But you don’t do it. And don’t do it. Until it becomes this massive THING hanging over you that you didn’t answer a stupid trivial mail from five weeks ago that you could have got done in thirty seconds, but now you’ve got to explain also WHY it’s taken you five weeks to answer it, and you mull over the possible approaches - joky? offhand? sincerely apologetic? and then you decide to sleep on it just one more night in case that gives you a lightbulb moment of the absolute PERFECT response you can make…
And then, six weeks after whatever it is has all blown over or blown up you’re sitting there looking at another email, or bank deposit, or long toenail, and you know that the consequence of leaving it too long is that you’ll eventually get to the state where you can’t even LOOK at a bank, or your computer, or the clippers without cringing, and yet…yeah, you’ll do it tomorrow.
Yeah, me, I totally get it.
Even weirder, I had to do it and put my husband on it too. Like, for all our important married people shit. I wasn’t even used to saying “husband” yet.
Mitigated a bit by the fact that he showed up with a stack of comic books to put in there.
Yes, I identify with this comic, and people know it. My boss even printed out this frame, stuck my name on it and taped it to my office door. I work on a computer all day, by the way.
