Yesterday I came to a fork in the proverbial road. I had a box to ship in time for Mother's Day and I had two choices.
The road less traveled (The Post Office) or UPS.
I chose the road less traveled.
Since moving to New Mexico, I have learned that Newman, ironically, gets packages to my family on the east coast much faster than the man in brown. Plus, the local UPS store guy gives me the heebie jeebies. I am sure he is perfectly nice and that his mama loves him, but there is something about him that I just can't figure out.
Most of the time Hubs makes the trips to the post office. Yesterday was different. He was busy and I was forced to go or else my mama may not get her cute little gift bag on time.
As I stood in line in the post office, a little old man in Wrangler jeans approached the counter.
"I want to talk to the Postmaster."
"What do you need, sir?" the postal worker asked.
"I need to talk to someone about the person who is delivering my mail."
I could tell from the man's tone that he was not about to offer any commendations or recommendations of a promotion for his mail carrier. I couldn't help but snicker to myself. I love this guy.
"You need the supervisor," the lady behind the counter replied.
She quickly darted into a secret passage which leads to bins of mail and postal workers on break, the place in the back where insufficient postage stamped mail goes to die.
"I'll wait. It'll be at least thirty minutes," the disgruntled man said.
Again, a snicker from me.
In less than thirty minutes, a man in a uniform emerged from the secret passage and approached the upset customer.
I stood there paying for my mama's package to be mailed and minding my own business, ahem, when I overheard the upset, old cowboy loudly share his grievances.
"I want to know who delivers mail to this address," he said, pointing to his own mail.
He continued, "Is it a woman or a man? If it's a woman I don't want to say anything but if it's a man, I am going to chew him out!"
He hates the postal service and he's a gentleman. Double love this guy.
"It's a man, " said Official Grievance Taker Worker.
"Well, he refuses to pick up my mail and I had to drive all over town to pay my bills..." the man went on.
I paid my postage and the lady at the counter wished me a nice day. We both grinned and gave each other a wink. The old cowboy continued his complaints.
I walked out and found a dog sitting outside the post office. Thinking that the dog belonged to a postal customer, I waited. People filed out of the building, pet the dog, and walked away.
Within a few minutes, the old cowboy emerged. We stood there together with the dog, looking at the tag and committed to finding its owner before leaving.
"I got a kick out of your story in there," I told him, "the post office is one of my least favorite places on earth."
He chuckled and explained his postal problems in grim detail. We stood there chatting and petting a stray dog.
The owner finally came out of the post office, scolded the dog and informed us that the dog was supposed to stay in her truck. (Tip to owner: next time, don't roll the window down so far.)
The cowboy and I said goodbye to each other and I couldn't help but snicker again. If I had known how entertaining the post office could be, I just may visit more often. (Okay, maybe not.)
And that's the day that I bonded with an old cowboy in Wrangler jeans in desperate need of a shave and a better mail carrier (or man, as it were.)