Friday, August 22, 2014

Doorman Goes to the Post Office: Part I

About a year ago, I, at the ripe age of 29, had to send a letter in the mail. Not an email, not a text or a snapchat, not a fax (holy shit, God forbid), not an e-document or a screen shot - but an actual letter in the mail. I had to Google it. Seriously. I had to fucking Google where to put the stamps and how many I need, along with where to put the return address. My guesses were mostly correct. Mostly. The first shot, the "dummy" envelope, for lack of a better term (it's a perfect term), saw me place the stamps where the return address would go.

Upon arrival to that giant blue metal box on the sidewalk that I the occasionally plow into crotch-first while I walk and text, a wave a panic washed over me:

What if I don't have enough stamps?!?

I put six stamps on there. SIX. It was going Poughkipsee, NY, a mere two hours from where I was sending it from. 

Am I SURE the return address and destination address are in the right spots?!?

I take out my phone and google "how to mail a letter in the mail" one last time. Everything looks kosher.

How am I going to know if they've received it?!? Do I get an email confirmation?!? SOME SORT OF RECIEPT?!?

No. You're living on the edge, kid.

I sent texts to the receiver of the mail every day for the entire weekend. On Sunday morning, I was told that it definitely wouldn't be coming that day. I don't know why they were so damn sure of that. It finally got to them, on a Tuesday. Rejoice. 

Anyway, I guess you can call me a typical Millennial kid - I have a blog, a web series, a few online dating profiles, and a chronic dependency to my iPhone. Though I never really felt as lost in the real world as I did a few days ago, when I sold my watch on eBay and had to go to the post office to ship it. I sold it to help cover the money we didn't raise for the new Doorman episodes (more on that in my next post). 

I offed a few more items around the apartment, though it was all in-city, pick-up-only stuff. This was the item I dreaded selling the most, because it meant that I would have to enter a building that I hadn't been in since I got my passport in 2008. The anxiety of having to go in and figure it all out without looking like a completely helpless, thirty-year-old baffoon, was killing me. Losing my virginity wasn't this fucking stressful. 

As the time expired on the auction, I took a deep breath as my aging MacBook Air slow-cooked my genitalia. It sold for about half of what I wanted to get for it, but that's besides the point. The point was that it sold, to some dude in Alabama.

This mean I had to ship a package.

I'm thirty years old, and I've never had to ship a package. I don't know if it's pathetic, or I'm just wildly efficient at avoiding dreadfully boring tasks.

Friday

Auction ends at approximately 3:30pm. I immediately convince myself that it's way too late in the day for that Alabama fucker to expect me to go to the post office. He's getting a nice Citizens watch for a third of the market value. He has no right to complain.

Saturday 

I wake up around 1pm with a stage-five hangover. I have to be at work at three. I stand up and look at the watch. The final remnant of a failed three-year relationship stares back at me. Bad memories come flooding back. The feeling makes me sick to my stomach.

Nope, that's the booze and late-night halal food. I run to the bathroom and scream-vomit into the ter-let. No post office for me today.

Sunday

I wake up at 10am. No hangover this time. I look at the watch and have another panic attack. Then I remember it's Sunday, and fuck this guy if he thinks I'm going to send him a watch in the mail on a Sunday.

Monday

Time to stop fucking around. I need to send this out ASAP to avoid this thing call "negative feedback" that these eBay addicts are always going on about. I plan to leave for work two hours than usual, to allow enough time to get to the post office and wait on line. People wait on line at the post office, right? It takes hours, right? RIGHT?!?

12pm - Time to leave. I panic. As I throw the watch in my bag and get ready to go, I notice that my room is a clutter. Well, I can't leave the house with my bedroom looking like this. What if I'm on my way home from work and a big-breasted, gorgeous woman comes up to me on the subway and is like, "Hey, I like how you wear low-top converse with shorts. Wanna take me back to your place and fuck?" What is she going to think when I open the bedroom door and sees all of this clutter on the floor? Those panties are going to be pulled right the hell up. Unacceptable.

12:46pm - I'm swiffer-mopping behind my computer desk. I finish and hold up the mop like a I'm a gladiator who's just slain his enemy and the mop is my trident. My bedroom looks immaculate. Immaculate. 

What the hell was I doing? 

POST OFFICE! FUCK!!!

12:52pm- I haven't called my mom in a while. Gonna give her a buzz and say hi. She'll appreciate that.

1:15pm - Up to speed on all the family gossip, I tell my mom that I love her and say goodbye.

That was good. I needed some home-comfort.

Where was I? 

THE WATCH! FUCK!!!

1:17pm - Well, it's too late to go now, because waiting on line at the post office takes hours, right? I opt to watch an episode of Wilfred as I contemplate my next move.

1:42pm - Wilfred is fucking hilarious. As soon as the credits roll, I click "next episode".

2:06pm - I have to leave for work. Wilfred and Ryan are getting stoned on the couch, an indicator that the episode is over. I'm already six minutes past the time I usually leave for work. I should get going, I have to run to the bank and make a deposit. Then there was something else I was supposed to do. What the hell was it?!?

FUCK!!!

Will Doorman make it to the post office?!? Will he get negative feedback on eBay?!? Will Ryan ever find out if Wilfred is really speaking to him, or if he's a figment of his imagination?!? WILL THE MAN FROM ALABAMA GET HIS WATCH?!?

Find out next time!!! 



No comments:

Post a Comment