BitterSweetLife

One of the joys of living downtown is my ongoing relationship with the USPS. Some of you suburbanites probably won’t understand the close symbiosis of this bond, so I thought I would explain. It works something like this.

1) I order something—usually a book. Or two books.
2) During the next several days, the USPS “rushes” to deliver my item in a timely manner, usually failing; but it’s the thought that counts.
3) On an appointed day, the friendly ‘hood mailman comes by while we're gone. Sensing the damage that might occur if he stuffs a 5” by 8” book into a 4” by 6” mailbox, he compassionately writes us a brief note of explanation and motors away in his little Jeep/golf-cart.
4) The next day, or the one after, I drive to the Post Office. A number of the employees there know me on sight, which they acknowledge by a slight inclination of the head and sympathetic looks.
5) I present my note and pick up my “package”—i.e. my book. The personnel take a quick look at my driver’s license, just for kicks. I have yet to become, in their estimation, a real danger to society. Nonetheless, they keep hoping.
6) Often, to show my appreciation for the USPS’s relentless nondelivery of packages to my apartment, and to acknowledge the personal responsibility they feel for my possessions, I buy a few stamps.
7) After the customary remarks, I drive home, checking the mailbox on the way inside to see if I’ll be visiting my friends at the Post Office again tomorrow.

And you're just wishing you had this kind of connection with your PO.