Short and Barefoot

I am short. Not too short. Not midget-sized short or anything like that. Just 5'2", which is not short enough to justify the behavior of the postmaster of my local post office. There are actually no characteristics that justify his behavior, but it is possible that he disagrees. This is how it went:

I was walking home at around 4:30 and thought I would drop by the post office because it closes at 5:00. The weather was lovely, thanks to the early spring that climate change decided to give us in order to placate us, so I wasn't wearing shoes. It's possible that shoes might have given me the half-inch necessary to earn some respect from the postmaster, but probably not. So I went in ... and I had a package! I love packages. And this package was special. It was ceramic teabowls shipped from Japan. Some were antiques! And despite the fact that the box quite clearly had "FRAGILE" written all over it, the postmaster was handling it in the rough sort of way that would get you arrested, but only if the package were actually a baby. I decided not to confront him about it, but only because it wasn't a baby. I'm also sure that the half-squished state of the box happened somewhere between here and Japan, so I didn't push that either. What did bother me was that the package had been shipped to a destination approximately four hundred miles away from where it was supposed to go. Alas, they were my dad's teabowls. Not sure how they got to my post office.

So I told the postmaster in my most assertive (not at all assertive) voice, "Um, this package was shipped to the wrong address. Is there any way to forward it or something?"

He looked at me in a way that suggested that he was either high or sleepwalking. "Um ... "

"You know, because it's not supposed to be here."

"You'll have to take it with you," he told me, blinking slowly. "Write a new address."

"Can't I do that here?" I asked.

"Sign here," he said, giving me a pen. Before I could argue he called, "Next!" and started speaking to the woman behind me over my head, because I'm apparently that short.

Don't let this happen to you, folks. Wear shoes in your post office.

(Not wearing shoes is also not an excuse for rude behavior. Remember kids, don't discriminate against short or barefoot people. They're human too.)

Update: always wear shoes in restaurants, though. I'm pretty sure that's a law.

Why I Wear My Hair in a Braid, and Other Important Tidbits

There are two things you need to know about me. First, I always wear my hair in a braid. Second, I'm always late. The first is intentional, and the second is not, unless of course I really feel like standing someone up, because then it is. People have asked me before why I don't wear my hair down more often, so let me inform you that three feet of hair is rather hard to manage. If you had three feet of hair, which you were convinced had a mind of its own, you would also try to control it before it became too powerful and tried to control you. It can do that, you know. Just the other day I decided to be adventurous and went out with my hair unsecured. I should have known better. My hair was plotting against me the whole time, obviously, because it decided to grab onto the front door of the very first building I tried to enter. While it might have looked at that time like I was making a respectful, sweeping bow to the door, or perhaps just whipping my hair back and forth at it in an inexplicable rage, I was actually stuck, which seemed to escape the notice of the many people shoving past me in a desperate attempt to fill their stomachs with breakfast foods. However, after a bit of making loud gibberish sounds at confused and upset passerby, and even a bit of embarrassing head thrashing, I was able to let myself loose. The hair was temporarily defeated, but its next attack could come at any time. I took the precaution of tying it in a knot, but it has a habit of escaping, and when it does, I have to watch my back. I would use the eyes in the back of my head, but my hair seems to have conspired to hang in front of them so I can't see what's behind me. It thinks it's so clever. I have often been asked after situations like this why I don't just cut it all off. No one understands. That's what the hair wants. It wants to be free of me so I can't keep it in line. If it escapes, there's no telling what it will do. Beware the braid, my friends. Beware.