Sending out books at the post the other day, corraling Matteo with one hand and balancing a box of lego toys while trying to keep a bounce in my step despite the crushing line of people during a non-holiday rush time of year.Post offices are running on less and less staff, So be it – the worker who I landed in front of was well beyond her “working with the public” expiration date. We went back and forth a few times about stuff that needed to be blacked out on one envelope – see, I try to do my part by reusing as many good packages as possible – but this worker was itching for a fight – when she and I both realized that the customs label to Canada went right over the space that she’d just made me blot out with my own sharpie -I made eye contact – smiled, but strange as it is to believe – held my tongue. Then she started giving me a hard time about how one envelope had too much tape on it, another not enough – I almost got out the cardboard book of goldilocks and the three bears stashed in the chariot trailer just so I could read along with her commentary. Finally, I just had to ask,” Mam, why are you giving me such a hard time?”
She lit up like someone had handed her an extra ball to throw at the bottles along the midway. She lived for moments like these, you could tell. “Son, if I were giving you a hard time you’d be in tears and calling for your momma. Hard time? I could break you… like that!”
She stamped her stamp. I stepped back. Clearly someone had already broken her – or maybe the years, the disappointments – who knew – but her threat made me laugh, a hearty, sincere laugh.
“Lady, I’m the father of three boys, with a fourth son on the way. You couldn’t make me cry if you had all day.” The postal worker next to her broke out laughing, folks in line joined in. Matteo even started to chuckle, then offered the woman a lego man as an olive branch.She was not amused. I dd not cry. I only hope those books make it to their destinations.
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