Just imagine the horror I felt when I opened my mailbox and discovered the buff-colored slip informing me that I had certified mail. Just imagine. When I walked to the other end of the building and found that the line ended outside the lobby door, I walked away. But it occurred to me that maybe someone was sending me a check, and I can ill afford to walk away from that.
So I got in line and waited. There's nothing quite like the post office in December, and I don't know why anyone would be there without pressing business to complete. Why, for example, would a man bring his two-year-old to the post office less than two weeks before Christmas, unless... well, I can't even think of a reason, unless he had no choice. Nobody else who could watch the child and nobody else who could handle this particular chore.
Just imagine my horror when— wait, not that again. I was more than mildly surprised when I found out why he was taking up the clerk's time, not to mention everyone waiting behind him in line, plus his unbelievably patient little boy. He was returning junk mail. He had a foot-high pile of catalogs that he wanted to give back to the postal service, along with the request not to deliver any more of them.
The clerk, who was more sympathetic than I would have been and much more understanding than the poor, exasperated mother who was next in line with her own little girl, explained that the catalogs were addressed to "Current Resident," and they were required to deliver them. "Do you mean I have to throw them away?" he wanted to know.
"Either that or just leave them in your box," she said, as she went through each item to make sure it wasn't something she could return to the sender.