I Must Draw the Line at My Butt Cheeks

The nightmare continues! Postal People Problems! I swear, I could start a separate blog. Let's try to narrow the topic to a single post office, and two specific visits. There IS a common theme. And that theme is VAL'S PERSONAL SPACE HAS BEEN VIOLATED. Excuse me. Sometimes I have to let it out.

Last Tuesday, I had a sick day to let the phlebotomist bruise my arm. Of course, I still had to go to school and pick up The Pony. It takes about 35 minutes to get there from home at top speed. I generally allow 40 minutes, just to be comfortable. I knew I had to pick up a package at the dead-mouse-smelling post office on the way, so I left 10 minutes early. I pass right by.

The universe continues to thwart Val's every plan. Before I even got to the dead-mouse-smelling post office, I had to dodge a barreling UPS truck, weave around a county highway department wood chipper on the blind fluffy dog curve (uh, blind curve, not blind dog), and follow a car on the county road that drove slower than my mom. Still. I had no idea I would later be an inactive participant in seven school buses stopping. So I was sure I had time to dash in for my package.

When did the dead-mouse-smelling post office turn into Walmart, where you are always tenth in line? I didn't get the memo. But since I was already stopped, and thought I had time, and had already counted the obstacles between me and the counter, I stayed. Send a package. Stamps. Registered letter. Package pick-up. Moving mail-forwarding form. Send a package. Stamps. Then the problem guy.

Problem Guy didn't know he was a problem. He had been minding his own business in line, scooting forward a thigh-high rectangular box with his foot. When he was next to next in line, he called somebody on his cell phone. "What's in here, anyway?" At the counter, he said he needed to ship it overseas in time for Christmas. The worker lady told him today was the last day. She put it on the scale, and told him it would cost $22. Did he want insurance? Yes. Contents worth $50. Then Worker Lady said, "Hold up. I think it's oversize." She whipped out her metal tape measure. Yep. Oversize. So it was going to cost $42. He did not complain. Just sighed and took out his wallet again. Worker Lady apologetically told him that if his package had weighed more, she wouldn't have needed to charge him for his package being oversize.

Here is the drama part. Yeah. People HAVE told me I have trouble getting to the point. There was only one lady between me and Problem Guy. But many other delayed customers had filed in after me. The old man directly behind me started heckling. "You mean if he put some rocks in that package, it would cost him less to mail?" Worker Lady agreed. "Yes. Unfortunately, the post office says that since they're not making money off your freight charge, they're going to make you pay more for taking up room." Huh. Problem Guy did not really engage. The box contained Christmas ornaments. Not good candidates for stowaway rocks.

But that's still not the theme of this story. The lady behind the Buttinsky guy would not stay in her place. From the minute she came in, she was a creeper. Buttinsky maintained the normal personal space that we older North Americans are accustomed to. Creeper was like a claim jumper. All at once she was between Buttinsky and me. Like she was going to jump on my back for a proper fireman's carry to the counter. The next minute she was under my left armpit. Then a step ahead of me. A regular Waldo. She was not stealthy, either. She kept popping up like a Whack-A-Mole. I only yearned for a mallet.

Problem Guy was shunted to the side to fill out paperwork. The lady ahead of me presented her orange postcard for a package. Worker Lady laid it on the counter and went to the back room. She returned with that package, and two for me, which she had to scan to show they hadn't lost them. She knows me on sight now. Worker Lady nodded at me as she handed over the previous lady's package. I laid my orange postcards on the counter next to the other one. THERE WAS CREEPER! She was in front of me. Craning her neck, looking at those cards like she was memorizing our addresses. WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?

In case anyone cares, I was ten minutes late to pick up The Pony. I only share that because I wanted to tie up that loose end before dwelling on the real issue here with my personal post office experience.

Today I had to pick up another two packages. The Pony was with me, but I had some jawing to do about a package missing since last Thursday, so I let him wait in the car. Perhaps I misspoke in comparing the dead-mouse-smelling post office to Walmart. Today I was only ninth in line. I can't even remember what the people head of me were doing, because I was so incensed about the man behind me.

Directly in front of me was a young mother with a baby in a basket, and a five-year-old. The baby was sweet, and the fiver didn't stare. Perfect. Except for that old man behind me. He kept sighing. I understood the need. But with every sigh, I felt the hair on the back of my neck part. Then he started doing the motorboat lip-flapping raspberry sound with each exhale. Like an old nag flapping its horse lips. I didn't want to turn. I moved forward as far as I could without setting the fiver to staring. Mr. Ed moved closer. I could feel the heat coming off his body. Except I was not Bear Grylls on the Irish moors, freezing my buttocks off, eating sheep eyeballs and stripping the hide for a makeshift sleeping bag. I was in no danger of hypothermia. I sighed. Half turned without looking. Hoping Mr. Ed would get the hint. He did not. I ran out of room to edge away from him. I turned my shoulders just a bit, to look out the window at T-Hoe. It couldn't have been more than a quarter turn. I didn't even move my feet. But that slight motion sent Mr. Ed's dangling hand, wrist, and forearm into the crack of my very buttocks! THE HORROR!

I heaved a heavy sigh of disapproval. Mr. Ed snorted. Not even an apology. I'm starting to think he was some kind of perv. I refused to turn my back to him again. I turned sideways, so he was at my shoulder. I hated that, because then his breath was on the side of my face. I wanted to grab his shoulders and shove him away. I sidled my way through the rest of the line. When my turn came at the counter, I moved off the the side. Right in the middle of the two stations. So it would have looked odd for him to ease up directly behind me again. WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?

I could never ride a train in India. Or even the New York subway.