We all go through it. First, there’s denial. “It’s fine,” you whisper, wrapping a wobbly gift at 11 PM on the Tuesday before. “The post office works on Christmas magic. I saw Miracle on 34th Street.”
Then comes anger. Usually aimed at the tape dispenser that has suddenly lost its will to live. Or at your own past self, who thought “I’ll do it next week” was a brilliant plan for three straight weeks. “Who needs a hand-knitted scarf?” you hiss at a roll of bubble wrap. “They can have a card! A very thoughtful card!”
Bargaining is next. You start talking to the post office. “If I use enough glitter, will you just let it slide?” You promise to organize your junk drawer if only the sorting machine will overlook the slightly squishy corner of the box.
The True Horror: The Line
And then, the big one: the line. Oh, the line. It snakes out the door, past the mailbox, and into the spirit of Christmas past. Everyone is holding the same expression. It’s a mix of determination and “I am this close to mailing myself to a beach.”
Category: 12Days - The Teacher Librarian
You don’t just stand in that line. You commune with it. You share eye rolls. You listen to someone explain, for the fifth time, that their package contains “non-perishable, but very breakable, grandma’s fruitcake.” You nod. You know. We all know.
There is a special kind of chaos in the air. A little kid is crying because they want a stamp. An adult is crying because they forgot the customs form. The clerk, a saint in a blue polo, has the thousand-yard stare of a war veteran. She has seen things.
