Because if They Didn't Make You Wait, it Wouldn't Be the Post Office

I spent quite a bit of time at the post office today, reinstating mail delivery to my house, which I canceled for my vacation. (Can you believe it took me that long to do that? I guess you can think whatever you want about what that says about me.) There was something like twelve people in line before me, and the post office people were, as usual, being really short and irascible about taking what seemed to be just way too long to serve customers. I didn't say anything about it, because I knew it would get me nowhere, but wow was it irritating. I mean, believe just as much in doing good work as anyone else, but fucking come on, do you really have to think all that hard about which bin is the specially marked one for Priority Mail?

But let's move on. Ranting is a fairly uncreative utilization of language.

But one thing: there was this one guy at the Post Office, he was really thin, was wearing this very small t-shirt, and was listening to a house-beat something on his walkman. He was there and he was grooving to himself, and at a couple points was just short of breaking out into some full-blown rave dance. I contemplated the picture: he would start to dance uncontrollably around the post office, then the girl next to him would join in, then the Miller truck driver, then me, then the grandmother, then the grandchild she had with her. Suddenly the petulant mail people behind the counter would jump up on the counter, a disco ball would descend from out of nowhere...

Did I mention how boring it was in there?

Now. Putting down the post office experience for good now. Did I mention I am a total klutz? Well, I do fairly well for the most part, and can go months without doing just blatantly stupid things like tripping up stairs or spilling juice/beer/milk/whatever. I feel pretty safe driving cars, too. But then I seem to have these spells every once in a while. During these spells, I not only become a klutzy goof, but I become one in very specific, pointed ways. For the past month or so, I've been breaking my drinking glasses. For nearly a year, I had six pint glasses around my house, and I kept what I thought was impeccable care of them. But then not too long ago, things started going horribly awry. Now, after tipping one off the kitchen table last Sunday then kicking another one over while stumbling through my dark apartment the other night, I'm down to just two. Needless to say, I'm doing dishes a lot more lately. And I'm not too happy about that, either.

Which is why my next set of glasses will be completly plastic. Or maybe rubber. That way I know no one will get hurt.