And You Can Take That to the Bank: A Tale of Social Anxiety

Recently, I went to the bank to deposit a check. I would like to clarify that I did not go to the bank to share a lively conversation with the bank teller. Unfortunately, no-one told the bank teller this. So, here is how things went:

“Welcome to 5/3, how are you?”

“Good, how are you?”

“Oh, can’t complain.”

Awkward pause. Maybe I was supposed to jump in here with ‘this weather sure is terrible’ or perhaps some local gossip, but it was sunny and I know nothing. Valiantly, the teller pressed on, “Wouldn’t do no good if I did.”

I chuckled awkwardly and said “Nope,” as sweat poured from my brow. It was clear to both of us, then, that the conversation was dead. There was its corpse, lying on the carpet, a pale, weedy thing, never too robust to begin with. I did not grieve its passing, but the teller was still working on depositing the check, and we spent a very uncomfortable few moments in dead silence. I did not know where I was supposed to look. Down? No, then I’ll look even more socially backward than I already am. Should I watch her? I tried this for a while, but then we made eye contact and things got uncomfortable real fast. I can’t actually remember where my eyes eventually settled. Maybe they didn’t settle, maybe they I spent the rest of the time with them roving around like those of a madman. At any rate, this is what I felt like on the inside:

And then, sweet mercy, it was over. She told me to have a nice day, I told her to do the same, and I departed.

In order to help me avoid another encounter like this, my friend Carla wrote me a “Social Story” about going to the bank. This is the same method she uses to help autistic children in her preschool class. I’m down for that. I’ve been asking her to write me one of these babies for years. The only thing that could have improved upon this flawless manuscript is if my mom, who –though gifted in many other ways- is not at all artistic, had been the illustrator. Well, good news folks. She was.

Emily’s Story

At the Bank

My name is Emily, I am 18 years old. I am a good girl.

(Check out that tree trunk neck!)

Sometimes I go to the bank.

(Please take a moment to appreciate mom's attempt to draw a car. Ok, now you may proceed.)

At the bank, sometimes the cashier talks to me.

When the cashier talks to me, I will smile and say, “Hello.”

I might feel a little nervous, but it will be okay.

(It should be mentioned that this is mom’s artistic representation of the afore-pictured ‘this is what I felt like on the inside’ face.)

If the cashier tells me to have a good day, I will say, “Thank you! You have a good day too!”

I will smile and say goodbye as I leave the bank. I am a good girl.”

(Neck still trunky as ever.)