The Tell-Tale Imodium

While running errands this weekend, I walked into my bank, wandered over to the desk of a banker who'd beckoned me, sat down in a chair in front of him, and explained my problem. Then I saw it: sitting in his inbox, next to the TPS reports and the stapler, was an open box of Imodium. For the next half hour, whenever I wasn't reciting numbers for the banker to type into his computer, I stared at the box of Imodium. Did he know his gut medicine was clearly visible? Did he care? And, most importantly, what did the poor guy eat?

Later I walked out of the bank and mulled over my thoughts on guts, Imodium, and bankers. I realized that I wasn't really interested in the internal workings of the banker's guts; I was really interested in figuring out why I'd been so shocked to see Imodium on the banker's desk.

In the Peace Corps a combination of unsanitary food, a tight social network, and boredom means that everyone talks about everyone else's guts all the time. Small talk often includes questions like, "You don't look so good. Is it E. coli or amoebas?" (both if you ask Markus). When you're thinking about, talking about, and medicating your guts all the time, seeing a box of Imodium on someone's desk would not be shocking at all.

But now, after almost a year back in America, I've almost completely reassimlated into American life. And if there's one thing Americans don't do, it's talk about other people's guts. So I'll stop talking about guts, but the bankers of the world need to hold up their side of the bargain and put away their gut medicine. Gross, bankers.