Our local post office is run by people who simply don’t give a rip. Often I drive way out of my way to go to the post office in the next town, so I don’t have to deal with the low energy apathy of our post office. The lines are long. The workers are often rude. It almost seems they take perverse pleasure in going as slow as they can.
So I was in a good mood the other day and felt I had enough emotional fortitude to deal with our post office. I went in and per usual the line was long.
At one point there were about 20 people waiting and only one employee working the counter. Then another employee came out and it seemed like relief, but the very next customer needed a passport, and the wind got sucked out of our sails.
But my good mood was there, and I began staring at the back of the head of the woman in front of me. She was a black woman with gorgeous, silver hair. I admired the color. She had her hair swept up off her neck. I dream about having a nice head of solid grey hair. And I’ve been trying to get braver about mentioning it when I admire something about someone. I think it is a good thing to do, whenever possible, but I don’t always do it.
At one point, she turned toward me and I blurted out, “I really love the color of your hair.”
She smiled and said she used to color it, and then she had two aneurysms in her brain, and needed surgery, and allowed it to grow in naturally, and wound up liking it. Then she told me the story of her aneurysms. No symptoms. She went in to the hospital for a pain in her leg, and a doctor she didn’t know came in and ordered an MRA. She thought he meant MRI and didn’t understand why she would need that for her leg.
Her own doctor came in the following morning and asked, “Who’s this cat that ordered the MRA?” (Direct quote, “Who’s this cat….” Don’t you love it)? She told him she didn’t know.
Her doctor said, “Well, why don’t we go ahead with it.”
They did. And found two aneurysms, about to burst. She says the doctor who ordered the procedure is still a mystery to her. She says he was an angel.
This was just one of the stories she told me standing there in line.
I asked her name, and she said she goes by Fluffy. A nickname. I thought about telling her my name was Effie. Sometimes I sign my emails to select friends as “Effie” in honor of my finesse with, and love of, the F word.
I chickened out and told her my name was Michelle.
On my way out she was stopped at a table, fixing something or other, maybe her purse or another package, I don’t know. I said, “Good-bye, it was nice meeting you.” And she smiled at me and said, “It was nice meeting you too.” And then she said, “God bless you Michelle.”
And I felt it. I really did.
Right there in the worst post office ever, I felt blessed.