Wednesday, July 25, 2007

My Mail Lady Is Too Needy

Each day at around 11:36, when that little bell chimes, the elevator doors part like the Red Sea, and she makes her entrance into my office. I become riddled with anxiety and begin to change colors.

She seems so incredibly desperate to strike up a conversation with me, even if I'm clearly on the phone or in the middle of an "important, work-related project". Nothing against Mail Ladies, personally. I just don't do small talk. I try on occasion, and sometimes even manage to come off as though I'm entirely sincere, and truly interested in the weather or how the other person's day is going. But it always leaves a nasty after-taste, and makes me the slightest bit nauseated. It's like people who can't eat dairy. I'm not rude. I'm just small talk intolerant.

She tries to lock eyes with me, and although I always make it a point to smile politely, and sometimes even muster up an inaudible "Good Morning", which barely seeps through the tiny cracks of my fear, I feel she is unsatisfied. She appears almost reluctant to hand over the mail until she gets what she wants. We play a small game of tug-of-war. She is angered. I have no choice but to stare into her icy, hypnotic gaze. It is terrifying, and yet somehow tender and welcoming, like a mother about to eat her young. She has no irises or pupils, just deep pools of white for the eyes. And she is permanently grinning with the faintest smile that appears to have been painted on with lipstick or blood.

Finally, I surrender totally, and our eyes are fixed on one another. Then, and only then, am I rewarded with my prize. The mail.

"It sure is hot out there", sings the Siren.

"Yes.......Hot.....Sun......Yes", I reply, bewitched.

"They say it's supposed to cool off tonight", she says.

"Yes......Cool.....Tonight.......(Please leave)", I answer. A single tear now streaming down my left cheek.

We continue our empty, bottomless, black hole of a conversation for about a minute and a half (which feels more like 4 hours from my end), and then she is done. She has apparently devoured enough of my soul for one day. Her appetite for stupid chit-chat with me is appeased, and I am released from her spell. She makes her way for the elevator, but before she leaves, she tells me that tomorrow is her day off....(I don't care, Mail Lady!! Go away!!!)...And she warns me that she'll be back on Monday. (So, what??.....Now I gotta worry all weekend???)

Finally, she is gone, and although I'm drenched in sweat, my complexion returns to it's original hue (ras'brees and cream). I feel kind of bad, because clearly....I'm all she has. But this is just a little more than I ever wanted to get into with this mail woman...Or any US Postal worker, for that matter. I'm going to have to break it off.
If anyone knows of a good home for my Mail Lady, please contact me.

I can't.

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