Until recently, I have always harbored a hatred for mailing packages. First, you have to find a suitable box to use. Because I am lazy, I end up paying for an overpriced, ill-fitting box at the post office. Then you have to wrap the item carefully (I dig newspapers out of public trashcans and use those), seal the box tightly (with the tape I’ve inevitably forgotten), and write the address correctly (a challenge for someone who spent years writing “Virgina”). Worst of all, you have to physically go to a place to mail your package, an arduous task for a girl who has considered peeing in a water bottle under her desk because the restroom was too far away.
In the past few weeks, however, I have started using the Mailboxes, Etc. that is directly across the street from my work. Not only is it painfully convenient, but the jolly Irishman who runs the place always brightens my day. He is witty, cheerful, and exceptionally adept at manipulating the mail service – I can say with absolute certainty that I could have a goat mailed to Greenland by tomorrow for eight dollars. His accent also makes me want to reach across the counter and carry him home in a box. A Priority Mail box.
I had gone in there last Monday (a particularly cold and windy day) without a coat, so when I stopped in today in more appropriate attire, he immediately remarked on my increased common sense. I pointed out that I work just across the street, but that the other day, a woman actually stopped me in the lobby of my building to chastise me, exclaiming, “If I was your mother and I saw you outside without a coat on, I’d spank you!” Mr. Mailbox made a delightful yeesh sound when I told him this and commented, “Girl, as if you didn’t need enough therapy already. Now you’ve got strangers threatening to spank you.”
I love him. With that accent, he could club me in the face with a fire extinguisher and I’d still love him.
Then he spent ten minutes helping me wrap the necklace I was sending to Canada and determining the best method for shipping the package. I filled out the customs form and handed it back to him, at which point he asked me a few questions about the item to complete the remainder of the form.
“Item description.” He paused, pen hovering over the paper.
“A necklace,” I supplied helpfully, although he’d seen exactly what I was sending. No response from him. “Jewelry?” Silence. “A small animal?”
“Aha,” he said, and wrote “SMALL TOY ANIMAL” on the form. Seeing my inquisitive look, he explained that it would prevent theft of my item by an unscrupulous mail employee.
It was with great sadness, then, that I realized I would not have any more packages to mail for some time, as I have run out of valuables and organs to sell on eBay. So to Mr. Mailbox, thank you for bringing joy to my mailing experience. And to my recipient in Canada, your item should arrive on Monday morning. Please enjoy your Small Toy Animal. Be careful, however. It may bite.