One of the most hopeless feelings is dealing with the United States Post Office. This is one of the few bastions of absolute power left in modern American Society. Need to mail something quickly during your lunch break? Too bad; there’s only one counter open, and the clerk is in know hurry. Mail need to be help while you’re on holiday? Fill out this form. And don’t let your passport expire (which reminds me). They have all the power. You know it, they know it, and they remind you of this fact at every waking moment. But the worst is finding a lost package.
So I spent a while mulling what kicks I would be copping next (i’m kinda obsessive-compulsive when it comes to most purchases that are not food). I finally decided on these:
I found my size for a fair price, and made the purchase. I was giddy once I received the tracking info, but that expectation turned to anxiety once the shoes traveled from Boston, MA to Nashua, NH.
What’s that for? I exclaimed (get your mind out of the gutter). Why would the package travel North, further away from me, than towards the Commonwealth? Then, when they do arrive in town, the latest update shows they departed early this morning.
Yo, where my Roshes at b?
Anxiety lead to borderline anger as I realized that there was little I could do, being the receiver. The Post Office won’t even entertain my inquiries once they find out I’m not the sender, so why bother.
My feet wait.