A few days ago, I needed to transfer money from my Spanish bank account to my U.S. one, to ensure that my debt monsters received their monthly feeding. I’d done this a few times last year, and didn’t foresee it taking longer than ten minutes. Two hours later, I found myself waiting in line at the bank, laptop in hand, so that I could physically show someone the error message I had received.
As I stood in line, I became more and more frustrated with what I perceived to be each wasted minute of my day: “I should have already gotten groceries, gone to the gym, and cooked lunch by now. Instead, I’m standing in this fucking bank”.