There’s a line in the movie “Beetlejuice” in which Alec Baldwin’s and Geena Davis’s case worker tells them that people who commit suicide are doomed to be civil servants in the afterlife. Perhaps, but I think it is more likely they are forced to wait in line at the post office.
Armed with a day off from work and many to-do’s on my plate after a weekend of goofing off (knitting), I set off to do the dreaded, run errands. I hate running errands; I hate leaving our little valley of love for the mean streets of Scottsdale Scottsdale
We then turn our attentions to the clerks, the civil service postal workers who know, barring incredibly violent behavior or sexual harassment, they will never get fired and, therefore, move at the slowest pace possible to mankind. It does not matter that the line runs out the door and that the trophies are already bonding and planning shopping trips to Neiman’s, play dates for their Baby Gap-clad children, and Bunco games for them and their Range Rover-driving husbands. It doesn’t matter that more than a few blue hairs are looking scarily aged and should not be standing in line with locked knees and artificial hips for any length of time. The postal workers crawl. They pick up a package and take five minutes to walk with it behind the counter to the canvas parcel-holding bag. They stop and talk to each other. And even though there is room for five “workers,” only three are “working” and, of those three, no more than two are in place at one time. It must be a rule in the USPS handbook. A few of us, myself included, look like we are on the verge of losing it, which must be the true “going postal,” but finally, 45 minutes after entering purgatory, I am released and gleefully flee the Hell that is the Kachina Post Office.
Thankfully, I get to work tomorrow.