The woman in purple has been standing at the counter for 20 minutes. The line behind her has backed up out the door and into the parking lot. What is she doing? I’m third in line, so I can hear what she’s saying to the sales associate.
Did you know that Post Office counter workers were called sales associates? Me, neither. The only reason I know now is because I’ve been standing in line for so long that I’ve read everything on the walls. I’ve read the addresses on other people’s packages, the tags on their jeans, the brands on their shoes, the mottos on their tattoos, and the name badge on the poor damned sales associate who’s having to deal with the woman in purple.
What’s holding us all up? The woman in purple — who’s carrying a Louis Vuitton pocketbook — can’t decide if she wants to pay the extra twenty cents for Priority Mail. She’s got an oversized manila envelope, and the sales associate has just demonstrated the magic power of folding. If the woman in purple turns down the top and sides of her oversized manila envelope, she can shove it into a Flat Rate Envelope. Bang! Bob’s your uncle. She can drop it in the mail, pronto, easy as you please.
But the woman in purple doesn’t like the way the envelope looks when it’s folded. It looks sloppy. It looks cheap. I say, “You know what would look sharp and crisp and expensive, woman in purple? If you were to leave this busy Post Office, book yourself an airline ticket, and take your freaking oversized manila right to its destination. Why? Because nothing says ‘I care’ like hand delivery.”
And, because I have situational Tourette’s, I say this aloud. The people around me laugh. The sales associate looks nervous. The woman in purple? She pays me absolutely no mind. She’s busy digging around in her Louis Vuitton for twenty pennies.
I have no truck with the Puritans, but damned if we didn’t throw the baby out with the bath water when we got rid of those wooden stocks in the town square.
