I rarely get out of my car to use the ATM anymore because I am lazy and have children strapped into contraptions, which regularly pinch and beat me, called car seats. I will drive blocks out of my way to avoid getting out of my car. However, there is one bank on the way home with a walk-up ATM and not too long ago I stopped to use it….
I park right in front of the ATM and mosey out of the car until I catch another car parking opposite me and I can feel the RACE TO THE ATM coming on.
Luckily, Scott was with me so I yell: GET THE KIDS OUT OF THE CAR I’M HEADING TO THE ATM.
Five seconds later, I’m shoving my bank card into one of the eighteen slots ATM’s now have as my rival steps onto the sidewalk thwarted. I take a breath and find where I’m supposed to put the card while my kids run up to me and ooh and ah over the many shiny buttons and slots and screens.
I’m about to type in my password into the keyboard when I notice this stranger is in MY ATM BUBBLE.
Yes, I know I beat her to the machine, but I parked first and closest. She had no good reason to be inching in, and I had every good reason to think she’s spying on my password because why else would she be disrespecting the bubble?
I box her out as I punch in my numbers and pretend to be typing in other numbers, which is challenging since I only have 5 fingers and my ring finger is not strong enough to push buttons with accuracy even though it’s the best one for the job since no one expects the 4th finger to be typing in the code.
Exhausted with the effort of not protecting my money and personal space, I gallantly push forward to the business of depositing a month’s worth of checks with a 3-year-old and a 5-year-old. However, I can feel my rival breathing in my bubble. I desperately look for the ATM regulations sign to subtly point my chin towards.
But it only exists in NORMAL PEOPLE’S PSYCHES WHO AREN’T TRYING TO STEAL MY ACCOUNT INFORMATION.
Her overbearing actions flips the arrogant rule-breaking tailgater switch in me, and I slow down. The ATM may not have a speed limit, but I have two kids with an extraordinarily strong sense of justice so I split the checks between my kids, which is only fair but means we have to go through the deposit cycle twice.
I know if I make eye contact, I will begin to apologize for being a mom with checks, for being there first, for being fair, for being slow, for defending my personal space, for screwing with her. Instead, I latch on to my annoyance at her disrespect for the sacred bubble and tell my children loudly: You’re doing great guys! You are so helpful. Oh sweetie, it’s not your turn yet. We have to practice patience.
Shockingly, extolling to my children to practice patience does not encourage her to stop examining the pores on my neck. I am out of tricks until the ATM machine comes to my rescue by refusing to deposit or return my last check. Seconds become minutes as I talk my bubble-supporting ATM comrade into giving me back my check. When the ATM finally returns the check, I attempt to deposit it ONE MORE TIME.
A HRMPH and a swish of wind brings way-too-big of a smile to my face as I listen to my rival stomps off and peel out of the parking lot. My son takes my receipt, and I hold it up in the air in triumph.
THE ATM BUBBLE IS PRESERVED!