When I ship packages I go to a nearby pack and ship company. Â There is always polka music playing. Â That makes me happy. Â They also have 3D printed dinosaurs on the counter to show off what their printer can do. Â I want to work here when I grow up.
The average age of the employees has to be around 110. Â They are all very frail men. Â They toddle over to the counter and ask my name. Â They type it using one finger on each hand. Â They stare at the screen. Â They stare at me. Finally, â€œWe have shipped for you, yes?â€ they ask in a Slavic accent.
â€Yes,â€ I reply because we have this conversation about once a month. â€œBut you canâ€™t ever find me in the system.â€
â€Hmmm.â€ Â They look at me closely to see if Iâ€™m up to no good. â€œIâ€™ll look another way.â€ They type something else. Iâ€™m not sure what it is but that doesnâ€™t find me either. Â I give them my address to type in for the label. Never does anyone take this information and do whatever magic is required to put me in the system permanently. I donâ€™t suggest it because I donâ€™t want to be accused of impertinence.
I give him the last name of my Secret Sister that I send to in another state. Her name and address are saved in the computer. Â I point out the oddness of that and we both take a second to ponder the absurdities of life while nodding sagely.
He prints the label and holds it out for my inspection. Â I cross out my name because Secret Sister stuff is anonymous. He clicks his tongue indulgently at my weirdness.
I love these guys. Â Too bad I donâ€™t actually exist in their world.