"Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these courageous couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds"
Yeah. Not so much.
In Colorado its something like 1 degree outside. It would suck to be a mailman right now. I'd feel bad for them, except I hold strong to the belief that mailmen are judgmental a-holes. It's actually been confirmed!
Setting: Last year at the height of my Netflix frenzy. My Driveway. I'm getting into Chelsea's waiting car 1 second after the mailman pulls up in his stupid little car
Chelsea: The mailman's here. Want to get your mail really quick?
Me: No! Drive! Drive! My mailman is judgmental!
Chelsea: What?! You're being ridiculous!
Me: NO! He has unfairly discerned that I am a
pervert dweeb because the only mail I get is Playboy (Oh, Bridget Marquardt! You're my idol! Squeee!!!), Hooters Magazine (subscription free with my ultra-trashy Hooters Mastercard!), gay fashion magazines (I'm talking to you GQ, Details . . . ) and about a million Netflix movies a week! (Because I'm not gutsy enough to rent "Teeth" from Blockbuster)
Chelsea: (pause) Well, I'll get it FOR you then.
As Chelsea flips her hair and gets out of her car I watch through her tinted window and watch as the mailman hands her my mail (read: Netflix movies) and smirk "Well, here's something to watch at least . . . "
Chelsea gets back in the car.
Chelsea: Oh my God. He DOES judge you!
Me: I know. I know!
Chelsea seems to be the only witness to how I'm judged DAILY.
Setting: Cherry Creek Mall. Chelsea and I do some needed shopping and decide to get some lunch at Subway and catch up.
Me: I hate Subway. I think they snicker when I place my order.
Chelsea: You've got to be kidding.
Me: No. Subway people are TOTALLY judging me for my sandwich choice every chance they get!
The Subway douche takes Chelsea's order, then mine. Just plain tuna fish on wheat bread. Its all I ever get. I'm a creature of habit (and severe pickiness).
Subway Douche: Tuna? That's it??
Subway Douche: You're kidding. People come here so they can put all of the accoutrement on their sandwich.
Me: Ummmmmmm. Nope. that's it.
At this time I'm NOT looking at Chelsea who just witnessed this and promptly dropped her jaw. I'm having a vision of my standing in line at Subway, crying, trying to come up with anything that they can extract from a bin and place on my tuna that won't make me start to gag. (I have a vivid memory of sitting in the kitchen of my Aunt Gwen's trailer while she made little Chad and little Melissa tuna fish sandwiches with pickles. It was AMAZING - but I've never been able to recreate it. Or maybe I've just gotten pickier??)
Chelsea and I sit down so I can inhale my sandwich. Subway douche literally came from behind the counter and up to our table!
Subway douche: How's that plain tuna fish sandwich?
Me: huuuuuuu . . .
Subway douche: I still can't believe it (walks away, shaking his head)
Chelsea: Oh. My. God.
Me: Can we just go? (Just as soon as a refill my drink and smear shit on the restroom walls.)
Okay. Back to my destiny to never be a mailman. This morning I woke up freezing (an easy task for me) and I couldn't even put my contacts in because the thought of icy fingertips poking my eyeball makes me dry heave. I refuse to do anything today, including attend my final review for physics - due to snow. And I can't see. If it weren't for spellcheck this post would look like it was written by someone who's been drunk for three days and can now vomit at will.
To be a mailman, you need three things:
1. The knack of judging people for their mail. Be it contents, sender, whatever
2. You have to be able to see - at least well enough to get the addresses right.
3. You can't be a pussy when it comes to cold weather.
Guess which two qualities I don't have . . .