It's that time of the month again- no, I don't mean that time of the month where I curl up into a sobbing ball on the floor and curse all of the men in the world- it's November 15th.
This is the day where, in the paranoid, dark landscape of my mind, hopeful Wrimos are judged on their novel's progress, for it is exactly halfway through the month. And, following obvious logic, I should be halfway through the 50,000 wordcount goal.
And guess what? I TOTALLY AM.
I am not halfway through my novel; it's actually only getting started. But I have officially reached 25,000 words- 25,072 to be exact.
My 25,000th word was "Thank" and, fittingly, that's what I want to do right now: thank all of you. I want to thank my friends for understanding (most of the time) when I tell them that I would love to hang out, or interact with them during a free period, or talk, but I really must write. I'd like to thank my teachers for sort of begrudgingly accepting, if not understanding, that I would love to participate in class but I really must write.
And though I'm still not sure that there are any of you, but for the invisible masses reading my blog, I'd like to thank you for reading even though, while I would love to update more consistently or with funnier posts, I really must write.
And though I really must be writing (lies, I'm going to play several victory games of League because that is how professional authors work, trust me, I've asked around), I'm going to share with you a fun story about my day yesterday. It is a story that involves social anxiety (as does almost any story involving me), sassy Postal workers, and car tricks. Have I hooked you successfully? I am such a good writer.
If there's anything you should know about me, it's that I am an incredible procrastinator and possess an almost sloth-like level of laziness. It was a combination of these two things that led to me swinging a screeching car around the corner of my best friend's street with an untaped and unaddressed package hurtling around the floor. I had five minutes to get to the bank, pick up money, and then book it to the post office to mail a package already a couple weeks late to my NaNo Swap partner. In typical fashion, even though I bought the items days ago and I had about four hours to simply throw them in a box and mail it, I waited until it was do-or-die to do or die.
And die I might have, from the way I was speeding down the road. I was going first to pick up my friend because, as I texted her desperately, I was scared and I needed moral support to mail a package. After she jumped in the car and I sped like a demon through the ATM, actually achieving squealing tires status, we arrived at the post office, conveniently situated only about half a mile from my house, with one minute to spare. The manager was ominously closing the blinds on the doors as we dashed inside, me somehow clutching my car keys, my wallet, and the package to my chest, looking every inch the pesky teenagers we were.
There were a few other people in line and two tellers waiting upon them. I watched uncomfortably as one of them gathered their things and left, leaving only a kindly looking man with blue eyes to deal with the last three people.
I was, of course, the last person in line, and it was past five, but I approached the man with what I hoped was a beguiling look and placed the box on the counter.
"I'd like to ship this to California?"
I saw the older gentleman's blue eyes turn icy as he looked down at the open box.
"Did you want to tape it first?"
I was unprepared for the amount of sassiness that smacked me across the face like a white glove. Clearly, the gauntlet had been thrown down, but I was still hoping to cling to the innocent young lady guise.
"There's scotch tape on the counter, but I can't guarantee it'll work." Now, before you ask why I didn't just tape it at home- and yes, we had packaging tape- let it be known that I had never mailed a package before. Letters, yes, but for some reason I figured they might need to inspect the contents to make sure it wasn't, you know, a set of razors or depleted uranium or anything. This is what I mean by being socially anxious, and that was exactly why I'd brought Kylie along. You know, moral support.
I bound up the box as best as I could, imbuing the scotch tape with belief and faith and hoping it would make it stronger, and then brought it back to the man, who was doing his best facial impression of someone tapping their foot in irritation.
"Where's the address?"
I'd thought they needed a special address form to fill out.
"I-I thought you needed to write it on there."
"Just stick a piece of paper on it. Write fast." The manager was standing by the closed doors, looking on. "You know, it's five after five, and I'd like to get out of here. And you walk in at five with a package and nothing is ready. I would really like to go home, but you are completely unprepared."
Here is where my espoused fiestiness (not a word? should be a word) set in. I completely understood that I was late and it was costing him a few precious minutes of his life, but I was not okay with his needling comments about my preparation. After all, I was only trying to make things easier for them; if they had indeed needed to go through the contents I was trying to save them the trouble of ripping off the tape and reapplying it. How was I supposed to know that mailing dangerous objects was an acceptable and ignored practice? This man clearly expected too much of me.
"Would you rather I come back tomorrow?" I asked, I imagine, politely but forcefully.
"Well I would rather-"
"Should I come back later?"
We had an epic staredown.
"What kind of shipping do you want to buy?"