remember when we all used to round the corners on our photos?
It was Saturday evening around 5pm and my family and I had just finished dinner at Smashburger (my first time there- loved it!) and I thought it would be a good time to dash over to the post office and mail a pesky return I'd been holding onto for a week. I love those automated post boxes, don't you? A funny story in a funny story, my Dad didn't not believe in their existence until about two weeks ago when I swore up and down that YES there were these ATM-esque self-serve postal machines that allow you to skip the entire 20-person deep line and mail your package yourself. He laughed at me and said he didn't believe it...until he saw for himself that yes, Virginia, they really do exist. TOLD YOU DAD.
But anyway, I thought that Saturday night would be a great time to use the magic machine and get that godforsaken package off of my to-do list once and for all. I went into the empty lobby, package in hand, a canister of Mace in my pocket, equally ready to mail my parcel and to defend myself against some strange man sure to jump out and attack me. And you should know that I'm not even kidding- I think my parents have instilled such a fear in me of "bad things" happening (remind me to share the whole story my Mom would tell me growing up about hair dye and a public bathroom) that I'm virtually always looking over my shoulder for a stranger or worse, a VAN. But yes, I'm in the lobby, at the magic machine, ready to mail, when a man comes in and says "hey Miss, I can mail that for you, if you want to see if it fits into the slot over there in the metered section." First of all, points for the miss vs. ma'am, but hold up Mister Stranger, why on earth would I give you my package to mail for me? I looked at him puzzled for a moment and said something like, "oh no, I'm good thank you very much. I'm going to just put it over here where it belongs." He looked puzzled for a second and took two steps closer (I, getting two finger-lengths closer to my pepper spray), and said "No, see you don't understand, I need to mail your package for you if you want it to go out."
Hmm. The only thing I could think was that this man must be out of his mind and forcefully mailing others' packages must be this thing, but there was no way he was taking this Lulu return from me without a fight. He said again, "I'll mail it. Just get your postage." I again said no thank you and as he stood there, still staring at me, I got kind of freaked out and said quickly, "and if you could just let me mail this on my own that would be wonderful, thank you so much" all awkwardly jumbled together. I don't think it was rude of me to say that, but the second it came out of my sort-of-scared self's mouth, I noticed he was looking at me like I was the crazy one. He gave me the strangest look, turned around and as he did, I noticed there was a cart next to him, filled with those official mail bins, filled with mail. The kind postmen use when they collect mail from mailboxes. The kind they are happy to fill up with your mail. Oh.
Before I could say a word he was gone, cart and all, and there I was with the magic self-serve postage machine, unmailed package in hand. All I could think to do was yell into the mail slot, "Sir! I'm so sorry! I didn't realize you were a postal worker! Sir? Hello?" But my postman friend was long gone.
I got my postage, and me, my package and my pepper spray walked over the metered slot and dropped it in.
Hank and I like to call instances like this "Larry David moments." Have you ever seen Curb Your Enthusiasm? If you haven't, you must. But afterward, all I could think about was how much of an LD Moment this really was. So friends, remind me next time to not be such a paranoid weirdo, okay? Lesson learned.