Ok, yes—I admit it: I am one of those “Insert I-Pod Headphones in Ear, please don’t talk to me, you slightly recognizable stranger” kind of people. I hate small talk. I hate being forced into conversation with your visiting teacher and/or grad student professor because you accidentally fell into the same step as them on the way up to campus. I much prefer relationships to mutate organically.

I am also a creature of routine, so I like my schedule and I gravitate towards the familiar. So despite my distaste for bonding with people over small talk, clinging to my comfort zone has allowed me to always have a rather intimate relationship with my tellers at the bank. A strangely intimate relationship with my tellers out of the bank. (Take your mind out of the gutters, folks. Not that kind of intimate. Gross.). For whatever reason, all of our banking small talk about credit card protection and bad addition on my deposit slips usually creates long-lasting bonds that I have come to cherish.

Let’s see, first, at 1^st Bank, there was Nancy. She was blonde and soft-spoken, and for some reason the Line Gods always deposited me right at her telling station whenever I went to make a withdrawal from the savings account I wasn’t supposed to know about in high school.

She was later replaced by Forrest, who grew so tired of my incessant whining about 1^st Bank’s policy shift to supply their valued customers with generic suckers, that he purchased me my own VERY special bag of Dum-Dums for every visit (“Why yes, I WILL take two butterscotch and a mystery flavor, thanks!”).

Then came Nick with US Bank inside of Target. After a year-long flirtation with Nick, I decided it was time to pass him off for best friend approval, and pointed him out to Chloe while on a Target shopping spree—Only to discover that he was staring right at us as I had my pointer finger elongated in his direction. And when my bosses demanded the next day that I get a change order from US bank, my conversation with Nick went like this:

Nick: Hey, I saw you here yesterday,

Me: Wait, really?

Nick: Yeah, you and your friend. You were right there. (At this point, Nick whipped out his pointer finger to indicate not only WHERE he saw me, but also WHAT he saw me doing.)

Me: I wasn’t here yesterday. Oh! You know what, it must have been my twin!

Nick: Your twin?

Me: Yes, my twin.

Nick: (Disbelievingly) And what’s your twin’s name?

Me: (Retardedly) Uhh—Sienna.

Needless to say, this embarrassing freshmen-year-old lie abruptly ended my intimate teller relationship with Nick. Fortunately, Nick got promoted weeks later.

And fortunately, teller Kort from Wells Fargo got promoted as well after a series of awkward interactions involving crepes and concerts that never happened. (It is here that I should like to include a brief interjection from Bethany who stated, “There is something ironic about someone named Kort, who doesn’t properly court.”)

But I do not dislike Kort, mostly because he has led me to my newest teller relationship with Mari. Mari has a diamond ring the size of a baby Orca. Her husband didn’t call her until five months after their first date. I know this because Mari loves me and I love Mari. Mari listens sympathetically as I supply her with gossip about her former co-workers, and she, in turn tells me—with all of her teller wisdom—why boys behave the way they do.

I’m not sure what the moral of this story is exactly, except to say that, if you are ever my teller at the bank, I will gladly take my headphones out for you.