I'm not sure I've ever encountered such diversity as standing in line at the post office.
My current summer job requires frequenting the consistently busy Joliet post office, and I'm intrigued by what brings these people to this same line at 10am. Simultaneously captivated by the impossibly short African man in front of me swatting at a fly with the box in his hands and the Muslim ladies with head coverings trying desperately to conjure up enough English to explain their situation to the man behind the counter, I find myself overly curious as to what is being held in these envelopes and packages. Where are they being sent to? Why is the man in front of me furiously swatting at the air with a package marked: Fragile: Top Priority Overnight Express Mail?
Breaking my thoughts, the twenty something year-old man behind me remarks, "That's a rather large box, ma'am. Surely you've a young man to help you carry it?"
Smiling and shifting the box in my hands, I assure him that "It's really not as heavy as it looks." It then occurs to me that I've not the slightest idea as to the contents of my own box, and my name falls neither under sender nor receiver. Perhaps only my imagination wants to think that the messages and packaging of the others contain secrets, important documents, and happiness on the receiving side.
"I'd certainly help you out but.. well, yea." His box was probably twice the size of mine, and I smiled as I pictured him attempting to balance both packages in his arms.
After being scolded for improper postage markings (which I had no part in) and lacking identification, I headed for the automatic doors, which I was much more grateful for upon entrance.
"Miss... your keys. Looks like I got to help out after all, huh?" Smiling sheepishly, I took them from him and continued to my car, grateful that I avoided the awkward re-entrance embarrassment of retrieving my keys.
What's the greatest thing you've ever received in the mail?
It's your birthday and thirty of your close friends throw balloons at you.
But it's your birthday, so the unexpected is to be...expected.
Aunt Suzie has been avoiding questions for the past two weeks, your parents haven't even mentioned the big day, nor asked of your plans, and your best friend has this grin full of excitement and mystery. You knew. Even if you didn't know, you knew, because today.. was destined to be special.
Such is life. I'm not one to be surprised easily. Occassionally i will see that one blonde girl. You know her. I'm not being stereotypical, for she is indeed blonde, and she laughs at everything. Everything suprises her. The same boy pulling out the same chair from underneath her, the same jokes will never make sense..that girl. Oddly, I sometimes want to be her. My sense of surprise is excruciatingly dull.
Yes, surprise is now a sense. Let's make this the sixth, shall we? Actually, seven..seeing as how the sixth sense was defined by an "amazing" movie that i have yet to see. I digress...
Curiosity is the culprit for dulling my sense of surprise, i think. The postman walks by and waves, every morning the same. One morning he shifts his eyes away, hands remaining to his sides, and my mind creates a story, his story, behind the lack of wave which has come to be expected. -- He was obviously happily married and his wife moved out on him last night after a huge fight, he doesnt want to talk about it, hence the shifting of the eyes.
My cell phone will always ring, and usually at inopportune moments. If it were to stop ringing, even for a day, I would probably assume the world wished to block me from existence and never speak to me again.
I'm not surprised, because everything has a story, there are antagonists and responses which make them expected.
Were something out of the ordinary to happen, and instead of shock or awe in the moment, my curiosity devours the occurrence and I end up with something completely reasonable. My logic and normalcy is probably nothing of the sort in comparison with yours, but..to each his own.
Sometimes i just want to be that girl who stands in the doorway and screams in genuine surprise and excitement at the number of people hiding behind the coffee table...is that wrong?
Perhaps i'm ranting...no, probably just being curious about why i'm so damn curious all the time. I'm gonna go smoke a pipe or something...
Today.. I'm taking a lovely drive down the interstate (well, as lovely as 4 hours can be) and the sun is shining and Jesus has descended upon my radio by only playing songs that I enjoy and then..
My joyride came to a screeching halt in the form of a giant orange sign reading:
"Construction Work: Expect Long Waits"
...Wonderful. Really. Can there be anything more wonderful than sitting in a parked car by yourself on a neverending interstate? I think not. Especially when the radio turns to static. As you inch along you see a picture of a little girl, probably with pigtails, and most likely named Sally. Sally is informing you that her dad is one of the people in an orange vest keeping you from reaching your destination in a timely fashion, and that if you decide to ram your vehicle into her daddy... your wallet will be raped and you will be sent to jail. Regardless of these consequences though, there truly is nothing that you'd like to do more than to cause physical harm to whatever (possibly even whomever.. depending on time, passengers, and vehicle of course) is confining you to your assigned location on the road inside of your car which gets increasingly smaller as every minute passes.
Does sitting in traffic bother you? What are the factors that make it worse.. what makes it more tolerable? And do any of you (clearly insane) people actually LIKE sitting in traffic?
What does one do in a first post? I'd presume most write something about their day and all of the mundane things they've encountered while others will awkwardly fumble a "Can anyone even see this post?" followed by a few LOL's and a "The End" as closure.
I'm not going to do either. I've decided there's really no better way to start a blog than to brag incessantly about how incredibly unique and fascinating my life is, and why you should be jealous.
Reason #1 -- My GPA is higher than yours. No really, it is, and want me to further irritate you? I don't try, and on occasion, I'll even rub it in your face that I don't try by playing my music loudly and dancing around you as you study for the test we're taking at 8am.
Reason #2 -- I listen to obscure music. No really, you can't find any of this stuff on the radio and you've never heard of 90% of the bands on my iPod. And if you don't like them... it's because you don't appreciate fine music.
Reason #3 -- The stories I can tell you are insane. No really, I've been through everything and anything you could possibly tell me about your family life or travels I can one-up. Try me.
Did I mention that these are annoyances and not so much actualities? If you do any of these things then you can be rest assured that I am not a fan of you. I am actually not a fan of most people.. I'm working on it. Perhaps I'll be tolerable of some of your writing though. However...if you want stories and music, I'm sure we could have lovely conversations (preferably over a cup of tea or coffee), and sometimes you might even spot a little intelligence here if you look closely enough.
Feel free to correct my spelling and grammar, debate any seriousness, or throw out a long-winded "I concur." Don't friend me though, because I already have more friends than you in the "real world"...whatever that is. ;)
MOST IMPORTANTLY: NEVER.. EVER, EVER TAKE ME SERIOUSLY or GET OFFENDED BY MY INAPPROPRIATE OR SARCASTIC COMMENTS.