Do Mondays get a bad rap? What if they're mail Mondays? I've decided to save my weekend mail for Mondays. It's the one day of the week when people who suffer from weekend time off hangovers use the beginning of the week to gather themselves. They stay home. Goodness knows the back-to-work-on-Monday manics need all the road space available, so I will do my part and enjoy the almost-patron-free building on the first day of the week during off peak hours. There's always good parking space. Even the lobby was almost empty, and a sole patron made up the line inside. Oh, happy day!
There was time to have a chat with the mail clerk who assisted me today. Why is that remarkable? Well, we were able to chat because no one was behind me. Absolutely no one. There's usually a, "Herd 'em up! Move 'em out! atmosphere due to the staggered line that has become the standard in Katy. Supply and demand has become a myth in myth here. The UPSP cannot keep up with the new Texans (aka transplants) who need post office boxes, because their home cluster boxes have not been installed in the brand spanking new neighborhoods they've moved into. The Park Row post office is so small . . . Never mind. It's large enough to handle the mail that's mine. But . . . To all the people who still insist that mail is not an important part of their daily lives, I ask, "Why isn't it?"
So, my final weekend mail tally? Seventeen. A lovely feeling of accomplishment still lingers, long after I made it home. Seventeen out, with more on the way. The good feelings were briefly tinged with confusion.
Okay, maybe confusion is not the right word, but I think confused is how I felt after I opened my post office box, and I saw my own handwriting on mail I'd forgotten sending. Does it ever happen to you? Does it take a second for it to register, before it clicks, I've got mail. Um, my own.
Returned mail feels very much like a little punch to the solar plexus. I think it's disappointment. Worry dogs its heels. Always the thin line exists between wonder and worry.
Having two offerings bound back is a double whammy. It's worse because I worry and wonder. What's happened? Always the negative. Am I wired that way? Probably. But halfway home, I remembered that returned mail could very well mean the intended recipient might have moved. Or, better yet, maybe they eloped. Elopees never have time to fill out a change of address card on their way to the justice of the peace. Right? Then I wondered if they had to flee because of fire or mudslides. Stop already. But, wait. Who doesn't do a change of address these days? Now I need to check a map and see how close my pen friend is to the wild fires in Cali. No! Don't. So I won't.
And I don't. I examine my new Hendrix stamps instead, shaking my head and thinking "I could do a better job." And, " It doesn't even look like Jimi."
But, hey. Janis looks like Janis, except when images of Bette being Janis overrides my common sense. Oh. By the way? That first image deserves an explanation. Does anyone know what the Postal Service's Consumer Advocate does? I wonder if he/she has a job description. Oh well.
Here's wishing you "Good Mail!"