Okay, I’m an idiot. Let’s get that straight from the outset. My nephew’s birthday is December 3, and I hadn’t sent out his present yet. Not to worry, I assured myself. I’ll send it overnight mail. I’ll just pop in before work.
I left home about twenty minutes before I had to, so that I could make the stop. Surely, it wouldn’t take any more time than that.
Did I mention I’m an idiot?
When I pull into the lot, there’s no parking spaces. Ours is a small post office, I’ll grant. But ten parking spaces has never been, nor ever will be enough. There are three cars idling behind the parking spaces, edging agressively to try to stop one another from being able to take the next space.
I’m still not worried at this point. After all, I have twenty minutes.
The three cars ahead of me claim their places in an orderly fashion. I wait for my turn. Out comes a woman with a stack of mail in her hands. She sees me waiting, opens her car door, and leisurely proceeds to sit. She checks her mirrors. She puts on her seat belt. She pulls down her visor. She puts the mail on the passenger seat. She rumages in her purse.
I wait.
I’ve read that studies have shown that people who know someone else is waiting for a parking space take three times as long to leave it. This proves true. What’s she doing, sitting there? Apparently, nothing. For a moment, she sits perfectly still, as if trying to impress upon me her control of the situation. I capitulate, and wait quietly.
Finally, she apparently gets bored of the situation, and backs out at the pace of a glacial ice flow. Suddenly, another car zooms into the lot, and heads right for the spot. Not normally an agressive driver, I surprised myself by darting quickly ahead, blocking her path with my fender, then swinging into the spot. No way was I giving up my hard-earned spot to a damn “claim jumper.”
The woman driving the other car rolled down her window, and shrieked something unintelligibe at me, but I just ignored her. After all, it’s the holidays. It makes people evil. Anyone who’s ever worked retail can tell you that.
I enter the post office, and stare in horrified disbelief. There are fifteen people in line ahead of me. Not to worry, I assure myself, I still have time, and it won’t matter if I’m a few minutes late.
Clutching my package to my chest, I join in the shuffling dance of those waiting in line. I’m glad that I prevented the “claim jumper” from grabbing my spot, because now the line is twice as long, and she’s about five places back from me. I have enough time to ponder about where these people are parked. Actually, I have enough time to come up with a new theory of gravitation, if I were a scientist. But I’m not. I’m an idiot, remember?
At the counter, a little drama unfolds. It seems that the next customer in line had nine packages to send out, and wanted insurance on all of them. Unfortunately for us, she hadn’t filled out the requisite slips. The mood in the room turns ugly. One of the postal clerks meets my gaze, and rolls his eyes over the woman’s head. The man behind me mutters darkly. Another strokes his package as if wondering if the contents would withstand connecting with her head.
Thankfully, the clerks are very effecient. Most customers take less than a minute. The line moves relatively quickly. I have a conversation about the climate in Texas during this time of year with the man behind me to pass the tme. When it’s finally my turn, I approach the counter with my box. The woman with the insurance slips is still writing them out. (Mind you, I was fifteenth in line.) She doesn’t seem to notice the glares of those around her.
I tell the clerk that I want to send the box overnight. To my embarassment, he pulls out a slip which I need to fill out. I stammer out an apology, saying I didn’t realize I needed one. (I’m an idiot, remember?) I turn and apologize to the person waiting behind me in line.
The woman filling out the insurance slips whips around and gives me a nasty look. Apparently, my apology was rude, because it highlighted her own rudeness, or at least that’s how I interpreted it. I smile sweetly, and scribble out my form.
As I pay for the postage, the clerk looks up. I follow his gaze. The line now snakes out of the main room into the atrium, and out the door. I give him a sympathetic smile.
As he hands me my reciept, he whispers: “Pray for me!!!” I laugh and say that I will.
But really what I’m praying for is that I won’t be such a goddam idiot next year, and will mail out the package before the holiday rush starts.