Going Postal

Over the last few years I have really tried to self-improve by being more flexible and less irritated by menial things. In some areas I feel that I have done quite well. In other areas the urge for irritation is just too great.

For instance . . .

It drives me NUTS that the mail does not get here until at least 4:00, if not 4:30pm. What happened to the good old days when the mail came at or before noon? When we lived on the farm, rarely would there not be mail in the mailbox by noon. Now that we're in town, not a chance. I mean really, since we're in student housing you'd think that the university could get their mail out in a timely manner. Plus, Grand Forks isn't the largest town on the planet, so you'd think that mail delivery could be done in a timely manner.

Of course, maybe it has something to do with our mail carrier. He is Davey Crockett incarnate. If he didn't have to wear that silly post office cap, I'm positive it'd be a coon skin one. He's a little old short fellow, none too skinny with a beard that reaches at least to his third or fourth button on the classic blue uniform. Gray beard. And gray long hair. Erroneously thinking that it'd be good to make some good impressions in our new town, I introduced myself to him one day this fall. It's a good thing I wasn't in a hurry.

You see, our mail carrier is Dutch. Not that that means anything at all, but after a considerably long diatribe on the origin of names it was revealed that good old Mr. Anderson is indeed, a furry dutch man. After 15 minutes of the "more than I need to know about my mail carrier" game, I somewhat impolitely excused myself. It was awkward, but who wants to spend their afternoon investing quality outside time in the weird hallway by the mailboxes? I didn't. So I left.

After writing this, I am led to wonder how many people he meets along his mail route that he routinely tricks into conversation.

Sneaky mailman.

No wonder our mail doesn't get here until 4:30.