The Post Office

I am extremely afraid of the post office. It’s definitely a real phobia, though I’ve looked it up and there is no official name for it. The fear comes from a history of horrifying experiences. The first of which happened in high school when my mom ran into the post office while I stayed in the car. As soon as she got inside the skies opened up and a terrible storm separated mother from daughter. Coincidence? I think not…

And the postal workers, as a general rule, are very scary and mean. Never have I been made to feel so small and incompetent. How was I to know that they don’t also do the packaging for you at the post office? My mom had always done everything for me, after all, as good mothers should. Independence is overrated. In fact, I still wait to do my postal returns until my mom comes to town. She created my uselessness and this, I suppose, is her punishment…

It is not impossible that I have single-handedly kept the economy up and running during this pandemic. The Amazon boxes never stop coming. And now if something will take over 2 weeks to get to me, it is a non-starter…

Although terrified of USPS, I am grateful for the institution. And thankful I could vote with my children in a safe and secure way in this crazy 2020 election. And happy we still got our “I voted” stickers with the ballot…

At camp mail was very important, as it was the only way to communicate with the outside world. We gambled fancy stationery in ultra-competitive games of jacks. Jacks could be the one-and-only sport in which I excel. I am still trying to use up my collection of yin-yang and peace-sign stationery…

The directors of camp often urged us not to write home with any bad news – but I knew my mom wanted and needed to hear of my great suffering.