I was a bad, bad man.

I didn’t mean to, really. It was the simplest of verbal exchanges, but I must have punched one of the buttons of one of the pillars of our tiny community, the local bank manager lady.

It began innocently enough. You see, I foolishly let myself be talked into volunteering to be on my condo’s Board of Directors. In fact, I’m President.

It’s a pretty exciting job, let me tell you. Why, just last week, I talked to the workman installing new grade collars on the septic tanks. I signed some paperwork. And I engaged in a lively debate of the relative merits of leaving clover in the lawn areas or not. (Just so you know, I'm strongly pro-clover, but the head of the Landscape Committee is adamantly anti-clover. It's a hot debate!)

I mean, is that exciting, or what? Come on, admit it: You’re jealous.

Anyway, I was at the local bank with two other Board members. We were there to sign some financial stuff. The bank’s a tiny branch office here, in one part of a tiny New Hampshire town. As a homeowner’s association, we’re one of the larger fish in this tiny pond, so we get good service. The branch’s head honchette personally attended to our needs.

She’s a very nice lady who takes her job with utmost seriousness. That’s a good thing; you don’t want some clown screwing around with your money. But you can be safe and still have some fun.

Or so I thought.

Our Treasurer was trying to find the best place to park some of the Association’s money for a while; perhaps a shorter-term CD or something. We asked about the current standard savings interest rate, and she said “Point 1.” meaning one-tenth of one percent.

I knew that it was that low. In fact many banks are in the same area of ridiculously low interest for plain saving accounts.

She mentioned the “Point 1” again and, trying to be funny, I said something like “I like how you can say that without even cracking a smile.”

I thought the humor was obvious: An interest rate that low is like a joke, right? Ha Ha?

Nope.

She was visibly affronted and immediately launched into a heartfelt and spirited defense of both her bank and the guys who set the rates. She explained how, at a corporate meeting, she’d asked how the rates are actually set and was impressed with the detail and clarity of the answer she got. Why, they have spreadsheets and analyses, and....

She had gone on for a painful couple minutes when I leaned forward and said, “I’m sorry! It was just a joke!”

She stopped in mid-sentence, looked at me with eyes wide and said, “It’s just that no one ever said that to me before.”

Such are the thin skins of small-town banking officers.

Note to self: Dial it back, Fred. Just dial it back a notch or two. Sigh.

I think I’ll use the drive-up window for a while.