Who knew going to the post office would be a high stress event for me?
I've been to the post office many times in my life and I'm aware of what it entails.
I know how to fill out customs forms and how to buy postage.
I am also aware that it costs a bit of money to send things overseas. I was prepared to pay hostage rates to get some American candy to my grandson in England.
However, I was taken aback that it cost almost $37.50 to send $10 worth of Laffy Taffy and Jolly Ranchers. This was for candy squashed into a postal bag after I had carefully sorted it into two lighter bags bought for this purpose.
By the time I got to the point of handing over my credit card, I just wanted the endeavor to be over so I paid the high price, partly because I knew Laffy Taffy is unavailable in England and I want the good grandma award!
I had put on my working wardrobe and planned for this ordeal.
I stood in line with my mask on and on the social distancing spot.
I remembered I would need customs forms so I looked over and grabbed some green ones.
In a few minutes, I realized the customs forms are NOT green anymore so I got out of line and went searching for the proper paperwork.
They are five sheets of carbon paper deep with many lines
of information demanded.
I began to write (with pressure), the address of my grandson and my address, over and over.
My address is simple. His is not.
I described the contents of the bubble envelope: "candy." It seemed silly to write "Jolly Ranchers" and "Laffy Taffy."
I passed on insurance and certification while remembering the Valentine chocolates that NEVER reached my missionary granddaughter in Arizona.
I rejoined the line, several people longer now, and waited, my face getting hot from the mask and my nerves.
I noticed the same two people who had been at the counter when I came in 30 minutes earlier were still at the counter. That was okay. I had come with no deadline.
Finally, it was my turn and I handed my precious packages to the nice girl.
"Do they both go to the same place?" she asked.
Yes. I had some for Jack to share with his mom and some just for Jack. I was trying to be clever.
"Well, it'll be cheaper to put them in the same envelope," she said, as she squished them together and pushed them into a bag.
"Now, do these say the same thing?" she asked, looking at the forms I had so painstakingly filled out.
Yes. I realized I had overdone the form thing.
She tore one up.
"Does this say Jock?" she asked. "And is this their postal code?" (The code is an odd combination of letters and numbers that have always confused me.)
"It says "Jack!" I said with definition. And yes, the code is weird.
"Sign here!" she commanded. "And here!"
I did.
She made some notes and plopped the package in a bin.
Almost done. I handed over my money and she affixed the postage, handing me a receipt. The people behind me in line applauded. (Just kidding.)
It's on its way now: pure sugar worth its weight in gold to "Jade Morrey!"
