Church of the PO
I usually pay all of my bills online, but occasionally I have to use snail mail to pay the odd company that hasn’t set up automatic payments, send my mom a card, or do anything related to the great state of Georgia. I had a few envelopes to send out this month and I searched my desk for three stamps. I pulled out the book of stamps and as fate would have it there were only two left. I searched the desk again in vain and knew I would have to take the dreaded trip to the post office for one, single, solitary stamp.
The post office is only a mile from my house and they have a stamp machine in the lobby, so I thought this excursion should take 15 minutes tops. Wrong! My first clue was driving up to the place and seeing that there weren’t any parking spaces open. Then it hit me, this was a Saturday the worst day of the week to attempt to go to the post office. I remembered I only had to go to the lobby, put my money in the machine, grab my stamps and get out of there. I strode into the lobby smugly and looked around, the stamp machine was gone! I felt like giving a William Shatner School of bad acting scream, which is falling to your knees while looking up at the gods screaming “no” with upraised clenched fists. I did this in my mind instead, but everyone in line could sense my internal dialog and gestured for me to get in line.
The line was about 15 people deep and moving at a snails pace. We were packed into a room with a line on the floor that couldn’t be crossed until you were summoned. A few people tried to cross before their time and were told to step back in the holding pen for a few additional seconds for their penance. Someone needed to pick up a package and their identification was scrutinized as closely as if they were trying to enter another country.
It seemed that they had chosen the people to work behind the counter based on their ability to work at a surreally slow pace. It was like an art form, there were no sudden or jerking motions, every thing was performed in a serene steady manner. Stamps were thoughtfully placed on the packages and smoothed down in nice even strokes; envelopes were carefully walked one at a time and placed in a basket. It was like watching Tai chi in the park.
Then it hit me, this was the closest I had come to a religious ceremony in years. It was if I was transported back to the Catholic mass of my youth. The humbling of standing in line made me realize I was no better than anyone else. The line on the floor taught me respect and compliance and the procession of the people behind the counter taught me patience. I had come in for a book of stamps and left with so much more.