I helped a customer today that I wish I had never seen. I hope that I never see her again.
She wasn't rude or demanding. For all I know, she was just a sweet old lady. And that's part of the problem.
Here's the thing... She was wearing a sleeveless shirt. Now, it was a hot day today. For the most part, I have no problem when women wear sleeveless attire. I mean, it's in the mid-90s outside and the humidity is almost about to jump off the charts. But I think there should really be an age limit.
This woman was, by my best estimations, ancient. Did you ever see There's Something About Mary? You know the shriveled up, over-tanned old lady on that? She looked like a smooth length of silk compared to this old chick.
It was kind of like someone had taken her arms and just pulled her skin off her bones, the way someone would pull on a rubber band, and then it just snapped back. But it didn't go back to its old shape. The skin was still all stretched out, but now it went back to covering the same area as before.
I had the displeasure of helping this woman. And she was a talker. I can be polite to our customers when they want to talk, even though I am not a talker. The elderly folks that come in are, a lot of the time, a lonely crew and a trip to the bank means a chance to talk to someone... anyone. Even if it means they're stuck talking to a jerk like me. Who, meanwhile, cannot wait until they finally shut their traps so I can thank them for banking with us.
So I'm caught in a conversation about whether or not this woman's account has a decent interest rate or not. And while she's talking, all I can think about is how not to throw up while looking at her heavily wrinkled arms. And through my mind is running the feasibility of running for office, simply so I can write legislation making it unlawful for men and women of a certain age to wear sleeveless shirts.
I know, I'm mean. How can you stand to keep reading this stuff?