Hello and thanks for coming to part two of my two-part
series on how utterly impossible adulting appears to be. We left off with our
joyous departure from George, whose entire being may have inspired the
mediocre-white-man-prayer. I don’t know who is responsible for the creation of
this prayer, but it goes something like this: “Lord grant me the confidence of
a mediocre white man”. That’s it. So simple, yet so layered.
Side note: If that prayer ticks you off, you might be a
mediocre white man. Sorry ‘bout it. But don’t go and get too worked up because today
we’re shining the light on female mediocrity. If you’re surprised female
mediocrity exists, you should be, because it usually doesn’t.
Just kidding, JUST KIDDING. Like I said, don’t get yourself all
worked up.
Let’s begin.
So we move to Indy and I spend a few months drunk on the joy of novelty and the power
of putting “Dr.” before my name in every possible context (ma’am, this is an
Arby’s). This honeymoon phase led me to believe that all things in life were
not only tolerable, but almost happily tolerable. It was a wild ride. Before it
ended, I was like, let’s deal with this retirement b.s.! I was certain we would
encounter better things from Merrill Lynch and Bank of America than had been
delivered in the past, because surely even these foes would fail to vanquish me
upon my mountain of new elevation.
Ignorance truly is bliss, folks.
We made an appointment online for 9 am on a Saturday. As we
stood outside the doors waiting for the branch to open, a harried looking woman
came rushing up to the door and was let in by another employee. The time was
approximately 8:58 am. We swept in as the doors opened at 9 and discovered that
this still-breathless woman would be our financial advisor.
She welcomed us into her office, where we sat in an awkward
silence waiting for her computer to boot up. Only god knows why this computer
needed more time to boot up than I need to get ready every morning, but after
like three minutes of staring at each other without saying anything, she pulled
out a little notebook and started asking us questions. What follows is a rough
transcript of baffling conversation that rivaled George in all but his hatred
for democrats in Florida:
Channa (for short):
Okay so you’re here to talk about retirement.
Me: Yes. We have an account that we opened like 18 months
ago. Long story, but we need to finish setting that thing up.
Channa: Oh okay, so um, so you haven’t set this up?
Me: No. No we have not.
Channa: Oh okay, so um, do you know what you want to do?
Me: Yes.
I proceed to give her very specific information on what we
would like to do with the current account.
Channa: Hm, okay, well um, here’s a spreadsheet on the kinds
of accounts we offer.
I take the paper she’s offering, somewhat confused because I
have not asked for options, but I don’t want to be rude.
Channa: So do you guys have any children?
Me: No.
Channa: Oh okay…
she glances
at her computer, which still appears to be booting up like we aren’t in the 21st
century and it's still attempting to dial into AOL
Do you have pets?
Me: Uh, yes.
Channa: writes down and boldly underlines “pets” in her
notebook
Okay great what kind of pets??
Me, confused about the note taking: …a little maltese yorkie
thingy…
Taylor interjects for the first time: HE’S A SILKY YORKIE
(Taylor once heard that this is an actual thing and finds it so funny that he
insists we tell people that our dog is a silky yorkie, like we even know what
that is)
Channa: writes down maltese/silky yorkie in her notebook
Uh huh, great, and what is the dog’s name?
Me: getting more confused …Lemmy
Channa: writes down
‘Lemmy’ and underlines it 3 times
At this point Channa’s computer beeps, and thank god it’s
time to get to work because this is really starting to get weird.
Channa starts typing away and I’m thinking this is great
because all I need from her is like 13 keystrokes, max, to accomplish my goals
and get on with my Saturday.
I open my mouth to repeat our demands but Channa interrupts
me to ask Taylor if he’s ever considered making his account Gold status.
Here’s the thing. Taylor and I occupy very defined roles in
our relationship.
I have close-to-zero skills when it comes to fixing literally
anything in the house or on my car, and also when it comes to driving anywhere
outside of my narrowly defined comfort zones. Thus, Taylor fixes most of the
things and drives most of the places.
On the flip side, Taylor has close-to-zero skills/interest
when it comes to most financial intricacies, including the formation and
execution of profitable, long-term financial decisions. Thus, this is where I
jump in to happily boss it all around.
So, much like Taylor takes the reins in complicated matters
of home improvement and vehicle maintenance, I moved to relieve him of the
financial reins that Channa was offering him. But Channa was too quick. She
maintained aggressive eye contact with Taylor and said, “all I have to do is
push this button and your account will be gold which means you get SO MUCH
STUFF FOR FREE”.
Having previously worked for Bank of America, I was
painfully aware of the nuance to all this, but Taylor was like “sure whatever”
and she clicked that button with such speed that superman himself could not
have intervened.
Okay fine, whatever, I could deal with that later. All that
mattered is that we left that damn place with the retirement account settled.
So I try to get back to this, but Channa interrupts me again to print something
out. It the most recent statement for our retirement account. The same one
sitting in front of me because I had printed it before coming.
Channa: There you go! There’s your retirement account.
Me: Yes, thank you. But like I explained before, those funds are sitting in cash, we need to change that.
Channa: Oooohh it's sitting in cash??
I start to scream something like “LISTEN, WOMAN” but I’m
interrupted once more by Channa, who is now locking eyes with Taylor again and
asking if he would like to open this credit card that he’s super eligible for.
Oh girl no.
This time I jump in quick and squash her sales goal dreams.
Channa is quiet for a moment and then says we should do some
research to decide what exactly we would like to do with this retirement
account.
She says we are welcome to come back when we decide this.
Channa then notices what I imagine was a look of unadulterated
rage on my face because she paused for a confused second to ask if she hadn’t answered all of my
questions. As I left the office I heard her promising Taylor she would call the next week to check in on the situation. She did not.
Though I have since transferred all things to Fidelity and
had fairly good luck doing so, I have updated the mediocrity prayer to this: Lord
grant me the confidence of literally any financial advisor on this godforsaken
planet. The End.
