I’m a nervous wreck dealing with fussy institutions. City Halls, motor vehicle departments, IRS offices, banks and libraries always turn me off, often turn me down and sometimes turn me out. As I enter one of these scary places I begin to feel like a kazoo player who is about to audition for the New York Philharmonic.
Kindergarten was the first restrictive institution I encountered. Having led a rather free-wheeling, carefree life up to then, I was appalled to have such arbitrary rules thrust upon me. Most activities that delight little boys were prohibited. Shouting, running, and punching one’s friends, three of my favorite pastimes, were suppressed. I couldn’t read yet but I was sure these were all guaranteed by the Constitution.
It’s not only the strict rules of institutions that bother me, it’s their ability to make me feel inadequate and out of the loop. I sometimes try to brazen my way through an embarrassing confrontation. “Of course I didn’t sign the check!” I growl at the teller. “Aren’t you familiar with the current law? I’m supposed to sign it in your presence!”
It always backfires. By then a small crowd has gathered just in time to hear the teller’s polite reply. “I never heard of that law, Sir, but whether you sign it or not, we cannot cash grocery coupons.”
Most officials and clerks who work in institutions will call me “Sir” like that and treat me with courtesy, but I often detect an air of puzzlement and sometimes just a teensy weensy tinge of outrage.
“You are perfectly correct, Sir. Your license, registration and insurance card are all up to date and valid, but you still cannot drive through for the vehicle’s safety inspection. You’ve brought the wrong car.”
That’s a typical example of their inflexibility. They create a maze of regulations and cast them in bronze allowing not the slightest deviation. Did you know you cannot check out a library book using your Medicare card?
No amount of preparation is enough to protect me from the yards of trippable red tape strung across my path. “Yes Sir!” We’ll be happy to open this checking account. It’s a pleasure to serve you! Your deposit slip is in perfect order and let me compliment you on your beautiful penmanship.”
At this point my ego is fully inflated. I’m going to love this bank. They appreciate and trust me without a mountain of documentation. They are fully aware that it’s my money we’re dealing with.
“There are just a few minor bits of information we’ll need,” the V.P. adds. “Your Social Security number, an official government correspondence with your name and address, and a certified copy of a mortgage or lease document. In very special circumstances (Please don’t take offense, Sir because we’re sure it doesn’t apply to you.) we’ll require certain details from an involved parole officer.”
In spite of all that , I’ve been through this bank’s many pages of terms and conditions and there is no mention at all of a strict ban on running, shoutng and punching one’s friends.
Imagine That 