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It takes a lot to get me off the ridge. Grandkids? You bet. Summer concerts? Yes ma’am. But a visit to the post office? That’s practically a diplomatic mission. I mean, we all know I’m a computer kind of gal. But if snail mail is requested, I will, every now and then, put on real pants and waltz into town, mail in hand, full of hope and questionable expectations.
Let me say upfront: our local post office is not the problem. Those folks are lovely. Friendly. Efficient. They smile, they stamp, they send things off into the great unknown like seasoned professionals. The problem starts the moment my package leaves our zip code and enters the Postal Twilight Zone.
Case in point: I mailed a packet to Virginia. Virginia, y’all. The very next state. The package and receipt had the nerve—the gall—to announce an “Expected Delivery of Wed 07/23/2025.” And like a fool, I believed it.
At first, it went great. It not only arrived in Charlotte, but also left Charlotte on the same day I mailed it! I was so impressed. (Mail from our small town has to first go to “the big city” for processing, so usually I know to add an extra day.) Next day? It arrived in Richmond, VA, looking like it meant business. I was already planning my acceptance speech for “Most Efficient Postal User of the Year.”
And then… radio silence. The package apparently decided to take a side quest. For an entire day, it was “In Transit to the Next Facility.” Where? No clue. Probably on a sightseeing tour of rural Virginia, possibly stopping to knit itself a sweater.
Then came the Wakefield Distribution Center, where things really went off the rails. My poor packet arrived bright and early on July 24th and was then lovingly “processed” for THREE. WHOLE. DAYS. I’ll give them one of the days, because that was a Sunday, but what were they doing? Giving it therapy? A makeover? Was it on a silent retreat?
Finally, on July 27th (ironically, a Sunday) it was released from postal purgatory and shipped off to Smithfield. The next day, it was “Out for delivery” by 6:10 a.m., delivered at 10:25 a.m.—a full seven days after I mailed it, and a full five days after its “Expected Delivery Date.” How do I know all this? ADHD’ers need tracking numbers like oxygen. I downloaded every update like a caffeinated detective chasing the world’s most boring mystery.
Here’s the kicker: the entire distance between me and the destination was 138 miles. One hundred thirty-eight. That’s a scenic drive and a Chick-fil-A stop. I could’ve hand-delivered it, complimented the front porch flowers, and been home in time to complain about the humidity.
Next time? I’m saving the postage, packing a picnic, and delivering it myself like a one-woman FedEx—but with better snacks and more passive-aggressive commentary.
Because if my mail is going to take a vacation, I want to be the one logging the miles.