Post Office.

After dropping the final kid off at school, I was ready to start my day. I began with great hope and many complicated plans that were going to secure a fruitful and most productive few hours. I had washed my hands of the usual morning catastrophes: “Dad, I can’t find any socks!! Look in your drawer, dinkus. Oh, ok.” “Daaaddd, I don’t want that in my lunch!! Too bad. I won’t eat it!! I don’t care.” “Dad, where’s my homework?!! It’s on the table where you left it.. Oh, yeah.” “Daddy, how long until my birthday?!! Ten and a half months, sweetheart.” I was now ready to dig in earnestly.


My first plan involved the post office. I knew that this was the wildcard. The pace at which I could navigate this hill climb would determine the shape of the rest of my day. I hate going to the post office. It is never a quick trip. I have never lucked out with a short line. I’m not sure they even exist. I have tried going to the post office at all hours and it doesn’t seem to matter. It is slooowww-going. I knew that hinging my day’s outcome on this uncertain variable was risky, but I was prepared and gave a reasonable cushion to allow for an exceptional delay. So I thought.

An hour and a half later, I walked out the door and felt like a corpse hopping out of the coffin. The sunlight was blinding and I was nearly run-over by another post office escapee fleeing in haste towards a better fate. I was deflated, if not completely beaten. My day was shot. The domino effect of this lost time was irrecoverable. I knew it. It was a done deal. I would go through the motions, but would end the day disappointed and dejected by all the unfulfilled potential. Oh well, not the first day that blew up and not the last, I’m sure. I prepared myself to move on as best I could.

While sitting in my truck gathering myself, I looked to my left and saw a lady in a small red car, two parking spots over, crying. Now, I was pretty sad about my big day getting flushed, but I wasn’t going to cry about it, though, in all honestly, I may have been close a couple of times while in line. As I cautiously spied on this poor woman, I felt bad for her, but I also felt kind of good, because for some perverted reason other people’s misery sometimes can minimize our own. Sad, but true.

As I started my truck and began to back out, I glanced at this unfortunate woman again and saw that she was indeed crying. In fact, she was bawling, but she was not sad. She was laughing her head off!! She was happy!! She was reading a letter and shaking and nodding and smiling with delight. She was affected. I watched her and began to smile myself. Then, I started laughing. This anonymous woman’s shameless joy was contagious and I was infected. Whatever was in her letter was magic. I felt a transformation take place not unlike when the Grinch feels his heart grow, then lifts the sleigh high over his head and streaks down the hill to deliver Christmas to the Whos in Whoville. I was changed.

I chuckled and drove away forgetting about what was lost and grateful for what was gained, a new perspective about what’s important. The people that write letters that can make us laugh hysterically in the post office parking lot are what matters. This recognition saved my day and I saw with fresh eyeballs all the wonderful potential that still existed. The outcomes were less important than the grin I would wear running my errands and the tone I would greet my late appointments with. My mood was lifted and that was the difference between success and failure. The smiling attitude that I met the world with was what mattered. This is true on any day. I understood then, that my day was going to be just fine and I have never left the post office feeling better.