The origin of the definition to "go postal" may very well lie at 23 West 43rd Street, where the postal workers of the Bryant Park Post Office will do anything in their power to ensure that you are having as bad a day as they are by the time you walk out with your book of stamps. I can always count on them to be abrupt, irritated and rude. Their consistency is comforting.
Rather than despise their attempts to spread worldwide exasperation, I love them for it. Sometimes when I've experienced way too many unwelcome surprises in the office, I venture down the street to the postal sanctuary, where I know I will find a familiar scowl to remind me that no matter how bad my day has been, postmarking boxes and redirecting customers to the proper mailing forms is always worse. The sky is always bluer when I exit that place.
Except for the little Asian woman with the photos of her family at the far corner counter. And I'm not just saying that because I'm half Filipina, but she is the only one I have ever seen smile, bid me good day, or not talk to me like she is chewing my face. I avoid her when I am having exceptionally bad days.
"Things I Love" Thursdays are inspired by "I Love New York" (BNY, February 14, 2007).
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