Today I went to the bank to open a new account. It was taking a long time, and I had errands to run. The lovely, kind bank accounts manager kept trying to give me brochures and pamphlets. That I didn't want.
Then he brought me my new ATM card. And one of those neat, little envelopes that they come in. He referred to it as a "protective sleeve." Then I did it. I asked him "if he puts his stuff in a protective sleeve."
As the last words slipped out of my mouth, I caught myself. And said, "Oh, that sounds awful! Please don't answer me."
We had a good laugh, as the heat of complete and total mortification lit up my face like a beacon. I couldn't even look him in the face for the rest of our meeting.
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