I think I’ve always looked pretty young. When I was 19, I went to a movie with a younger friend and the theater employee asked if she was my mom. Everyone always insisted that I’d appreciate this when I was older, which infuriated me at the time. Yeah, everyone’s infantilizing you NOW, but just imagine all the money you’ll save on face cream in like 30 years! You’ll be laughing your way to the bank when all these other assholes are buying retinol and you’re still washing your face with regular bar soap!
Were they right? I don’t know. Maybe, yeah, kinda? I am, admittedly, still washing my face with Ivory bar soap and nobody has ever asked if I’m my kid’s grandma. But, at this point, I honestly have no idea what any particular adult age “looks like.” When I’m with my high school friends, I still see a group of teenage girls. A coworker of mine, in his mid-forties, had a baby daughter and a granddaughter who were born the same year. I’ve known people who started going gray or bald in their twenties. I’ve known grandmas more trendy and gorgeous than I’ve ever been, even on my best days. There’s no one way to be or look any age, which is a really beautiful and freeing realization once you’ve had it. But, when you’re young and it feels like nobody is taking you seriously, it sucks.
I blamed a lot on my tininess and baby face. Not getting jobs I was qualified for after college. Unrequited crushes. People being generally weird or rude. Now, looking back at 39, I feel like maybe I was right about 40-50% of those times. The other 50-60%, there was probably something else going on that had very little to do with me or my appearance. Sometimes, though, I have no idea. The following is an example of one of those times. Every so often, I think back and wonder, “Huh. What was that all about?” I thought it might be interesting to see if you, my dear readers, have any ideas.
Here we go!:
At 24, I’d managed to save a few thousand dollars. I’d had this idea that I would go to grad school, travel abroad, or stop working for a year to write a novel before I turned 30. Now, I didn’t seem to be doing any of those things, so I asked a lady at my bank about how I could invest it. She said I’d have to call and make an appointment with someone “upstairs.”
I don’t think I’d even realized the bank had an upstairs, and it seemed very fancy and secretive. In fact, it felt like I’d just been tapped to join a secret society! Totally stoked, I called and spoke with a (presumably) different woman, who said to come by on Thursday at 1:30 and see Doug Hamilton.
When Thursday rolled around, I used my lunch break to go meet with Doug. I parked in a special area with a ramp to access the second floor. I’m pretty sure the lady on the phone must have told me to do this. I felt so badass as I walked up to the entrance, nodding to two men in suits who were smoking outside. I was a real adult! Hooray!
I’m not exactly sure what I expected to find inside. A bunch of people in power suits holding business meetings over a glass of scotch? A weird, yet fancy abstract art installation titled something like Prosperity or Abundance? To be called ma’am? I mean, this was the Appalachian Mountains, not New York City. But, yes, yes, and yes.
I definitely wasn’t anticipating a poorly lit, nondescript office with just two older female employees standing around chatting. It was definitely better than the office I worked in, where my boss had made some of the desks out of old doors and shipping crates. But not by a ton.
“Hi,” I said tentatively. “I have a 1:30 appointment with Doug Hamilton. Is this where I can find him?”
“Doug isn’t here today,” one of the women piped up. “He’s at the Winston branch. You can’t have an appointment with him.”
“Okay… I spoke with someone on the phone and made an appointment to see him here today, but I guess she made a mistake. Is there anyone else who can help me instead?”
“Who did you speak with? On the phone.”
“I didn’t get her name,” I said. “But I called on Monday morning if that helps at all.” The two employees exchanged a weird look. I wasn’t sure if they thought I was lying or the poor phone lady was going to get fired now, so I added, “It’s okay. Everyone makes mistakes.”
One of the women asked for my name and fired up a computer. “You’re not in here for today,” she reported smugly after a little bit of clicking. “And you’re not in here for any day.” Then the two of them just stared at me.
I got the sinking feeling then that they didn’t believe me, and also that nobody here was going to help me become fabulously wealthy. I should have just left then, but had already wasted so much of my lunch break to come down there.
“Look, I don’t know who works in this office. Where did I get the name Doug Hamilton from if I don’t have an appointment with him? Is there anybody else here who can help me?”
Silence. Look, their stony faces seemed to say, we already decided not to do any work today since Doug isn’t here, and you’re ruining it!
“Can one of you help me?” I tried again. “What do you both do here? Or maybe one of those men who was on a smoke break outside?” I wasn’t sure if either of those guys actually worked there, but they seemed like a better bet either way at this point.
“No, not them!” The woman smiled tersely and asked for my account information. “Where did you get all this money?” she asked. “Did someone give it to you?”
I blinked. “No. I saved it.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m 24. It must show my birthday on the account, right?”
She shook her head. “You don’t look that old.”
“Well, regardless, I am 24.”
“What were you wanting to do with this money?”
“I was hoping someone could help me figure that out, and tell me what options are available. Maybe a CD or money market account? An IRA? Or something else I might not know of yet?”
“We really can’t help you.”
“Should I reschedule my appointment with Doug?”
“No.” The lady hunted around for a minute before unearthing a few dusty pamphlets. “Just ignore any references to Y2K,” she said, handing them to me. “Take a look at these and call the number on the front if you have questions. But don’t come back here.”
“Oh. Okay…” I tucked them under my arm and walked dumbly out the door and back down the ramp. The men were gone. I tossed the pamphlets onto the backseat of my car, where they lived for a little while before being thrown away.
I called my mom and told her about it later. “When that woman asked where you got the money,” she laughed, “you should have told her you robbed a bank!”
“Ha ha, cute,” I replied.
To give an idea of how long ago this was, the next week, I switched banks to Wachovia. Because WHAT THE HELL?! At the time, I assumed my baby face had done me in once again. But now, I realize that I have no clue what was actually going on and I was hoping you could help me decide! Here’s what I’ve come up with so far:
- They were brushing me off because I looked so young.
- They thought I was an imposter.
- They were the imposters and not actually bank employees.
- People are the worst and really bad at their jobs.
- The town that I lived in was stupid and not very kind to young women.
- They thought I was stalking Doug Hamilton.
- Everyone at the bank hated these two employees and sent me up there to mess with them.
- Other ideas?! Has anyone else had an experience like this before?
At Wachovia, a very nice employee helped me set up a 5-year CD at 5% interest, which was crazy high! It turned out that this was because Wachovia was majorly strapped for cash, but I’d say that switching banks was still a win for me. Everyone I dealt with was super helpful and professional (even if a friend who used to work there referred to it as “Walk-all-over-ya”). And, five years later, my CD had earned enough to buy tons of bar soap for washing my baby face.
