When I ship packages I go to a nearby pack and ship company.  There is always polka music playing.  That makes me happy.  They also have 3D printed dinosaurs on the counter to show off what their printer can do.  I want to work here when I grow up.

The average age of the employees has to be around 110.  They are all very frail men.  They toddle over to the counter and ask my name.  They type it using one finger on each hand.  They stare at the screen.  They stare at me. Finally, “We have shipped for you, yes?” they ask in a Slavic accent.

”Yes,” I reply because we have this conversation about once a month. “But you can’t ever find me in the system.”

”Hmmm.”  They look at me closely to see if I’m up to no good. “I’ll look another way.” They type something else. I’m not sure what it is but that doesn’t find me either.  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 don’t suggest it because I don’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.  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.  I cross out my name because Secret Sister stuff is anonymous. He clicks his tongue indulgently at my weirdness.

I love these guys.  Too bad I don’t actually exist in their world.