I've Got Mail

I have a bit of a problem with simply ignoring things I wish didn’t exist. This can come in rather handy in some parts of life. Dachshund barking obnoxiously for hours? I barely notice it. That hole in the elbow of my favorite shirt? Might as well not be there. The fact that Chick-fil-a sandwiches probably can’t be considered a healthy daily diet? Mere details not worth my consideration.

The problem is, I do this with other stuff too. Stuff like credit card bills, emails I should respond to and well, picking up my mail. I don’t know why I don’t like picking up my mail. I mean, multiple times a day I walk Rosie right past my mailbox, but for some reason, I don’t enjoy taking the time to open the box, take out the mail and then go through it upon my return to my condo. And so, rather than acting as a normal person and just sucking it up and doing it, I went for at least three weeks last month without getting my mail.

I didn’t even realize it had been so long until I went to my mailbox looking for something that was due to arrive. I’d left my digital camera in a coat pocket on my brother’s coat over Thanksgiving. He had then packed the coat when he flew back to Iowa (where he lives – yes, I know, crazy. People really live in Iowa). So, after some persuasion—apparently making the trip to the post office to return my much-missed camera wasn’t at the top of his priorities—he finally called me to let me know it was on it’s way. So I went to check the box. And was completely dismayed to find that there was nothing in it. Nothing. Not even one of those notes saying like “Hey, you idiot. You didn’t pick up your mail for three weeks. Now you should come to this place and we’ll give it to you.”

So, unsure of how to handle this situation, I decided to leave a note for my postman in the box. I returned to my condo and wrote in large capital letters on a pink post it “WHERE ARE YOU MAIL?” I then put the post-it in the box.

Two days later I’d had no response. I decided probably there was a more orthodox way to find out where my mail was than cryptic messages left in a box that likely wasn’t being checked. So I removed the note and called the US Postal Service. Not having any idea which local post office was my post office, I needed to at least find that out. Apparently though, there’s an entire system behind filing complaints with the post office.

Unfortunately, I had to make the call during work hours and so even as I tried to be quiet at my desk, there was much background laughter from my co-workers as I awkwardly tried to explain that yes, I simply hadn’t checked my mail for three weeks. No, I hadn’t been out of town. No, I wasn’t immobile. Yes, I know that I should check my mail daily. Finally, I was told that my complaint would be filed and I should here a response within 24 hours.

The next day, like a little miracle, my mail just started again. I was thrilled. However, there was a serious gap period left unaccounted for. A gap period that included my beloved camera. But then, the following day, I got a call from my local post office. There was a message on my phone after lunch saying I should call back Nataline at the post office.

When I called, I was actually very surprised at the efficiency that ensued. I was immediately directed to Nataline who then told me I needed to speak to Xavier, my carrier. Being that it was 2 in the afternoon, I thought (apparently incorrectly) that my carrier might be, oh say, delivering mail. However, after some scuffling noises eventually Xavier came to the phone.

“Girl, I thought you were dead.”

“Nope, still alive.”

“Well, are you going to start picking up your mail now?”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

I couldn’t believe I was being scolded by my postman. This is why you should do things like picking up your mail. Eventually Xavier told me, much to my delight, that all of me mail including a box marked priority (my camera!) was at the post office and I just needed to come by and claim it. I was thrilled.

That evening, around ten o’clock, I headed to the mailbox for the day’s mail. I’d noticed since actually starting to collect it that it was delivered quite late. Now, knowing Xavier like I did, it was clear that he spent his daytime hours hanging around the post office and apparently preferred to do his delivering late night. As I walked around the corner, there he was, stuffing the mailboxes.

“Are you Xavier?” I asked.

“Are you Sarah Crosland?” he asked.

And so began what I can only hope blossoms into a warm relationship with my mailman. He’s good to have around if for no other reason than to assuage my fear that I will one day die alone and be eaten by Rosie before anyone notices I’m gone. I have a feeling now that Xavier might notice.