Thursday, April 19, 2001

Safety Deposit Box

Today, I did a highly adult thing. I went to the main branch of my bank in Harvard Square, and put some important documents into my safety deposit box.

The ritual of obtaining the box is enough to remind me that I'm a grown-up. First, you sign in. Then you present your key to the attendant, who then uses it along with his master key to open the small safe (yours!) inside the vault. Then he grabs the actual deposit box itself. This is a thin, long, black metal affair. The attendant then ushers you to a small room with two chairs (presumably more than one person can view the box at once). Then the door closes, and you're all alone, with your most valued possessions.

For me, a sampling includes: my birth and baptism certificates, and the title deed to my wife's car. Our marriage license is in there as well.

When you leave, it feels like you just finished confession: relief, pride (I just did something good!), happy. It's wonderfully sobering to visit your safety deposit box.

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