Citizenship

Glorious, people. It was a glorious experience. Today, like millions of Americans (I assume and I hope) I exercised one of the most precious privileges of being a citizen of the United States. Yes, I voted, but that's not what I'm talking about. Let's face it, voting, at least at my precinct, is not much more than a standardized test (albeit with ballpoint pens rather than No. 2 pencils [and what's the deal with No. 1 pencils--what are they, where are they, and why do they get the shaft while No. 2's get all the glory???]), an excuse to drain your brain of all the platitudinous come-ons of all the ads and try to figure out things like the future of livestock farming or whether some guy named Kelly rather than another one named Corrigan gets your vote (this is Cleveland, after all). I actually recognized one name on the ballot and was happy not to fill in the oval next to it; not too many people have gotten on my bad side and stayed there, but this one would-be politician certainly did. Anyway, especially in an off off year, election-wise, I just can't get that worked up over the reality of voting, as much as I honor in it theory.

No, the exercising of citizenship that I'm talking about, the experience that made me feel so gloriously American today, was waiting in line at the post office. Ain't that America, for you and me, babe? For work I have to go to my local PO twice a week, and believe me, there are few regular small pleasures in my life that can compete with going to, standing in line at, and transacting business at the post office (Q-Tipping my ears, blogging religiously for you all, and celebrating the annual rite of the Browns bye week come to mind, not much else). Of course I'm biased; I'm a regular at the PO, my time spent there is time on the clock, so I'm actually getting paid to be there, and even if your personal PO experience is a dreadful one, you must admit that coming from holiday season (yes, Halloween is past, ergo, it's Xmas season) retail hell, even time spent waiting in line at the PO could actually be a step up in the psychological well-being department. Besides, "the ladies treat me kindly, and they furnish me with tape": I love the people who work at my PO. They're very friendly.

I don't know squat about Buddhism, but I think the key to appreciating your PO experience is to approach it as a walk-in Zen center. First of all, dismiss all notions of time (God I love the fact that William Faulkner, that genius of time analysis, once worked at--and was fired from--the post office). Most people, it seems to me, go to their PO already in a hurry. First and biggest mistake. In our go go society, let your trip to the PO be the one place where you willingly suspend all sense of time. If you happen to get in and out in a minute or two, don't walk away smugly thinking that's the way it always should be; rather, chalk it up as a random occurrence, not a privilege, like ho-hum voting. Bask in the "in-between time" waiting in line affords you. Variously I pray, try to recite (silently, usually) the names of the presidents in order, contemplate how my life would be different if I had pursued the hobby of philately (all the while smirking that nothing says faded dead celebrity more acutely than seeing one's face on a obsoletely-priced stamp: $.37? you has been! [my will stipulates that my heirs only agree to allowing my likeness to appear on a Forever Stamp, if Uncle Sam wishes to honor me postage-wise]), or if I'm feeling frisky, try to mind-meld with the other, irritated (notice the use of the comma there; no irritableness on me) people in line. Time is the one thing we all go to our graves wishing we had more of; accept humbly the gift of time that waiting at the PO presents you with (please don't foolishly assume I feel this way about waiting in line at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles; that's a hell Zen can never crack).

Think of it! For less than a cup of coffee, you can put a flimsy paper in a weird box and within a day or two or maybe three that paper will end up (just about) nowhere else except where you want it to, anywhere in this great country of ours. That fact has amazed since I was a wee lad, and it still does. Compared to how long I've waited for some spoiled millionaires to win a few games that matter in this city, a few minutes communing with my fellow citizens in a bright, friendly environment is paradise. Go postal? Don't mind if I do.

Marmalade-Wait A Minute Baby