Please, Mr. Postman

I have the utmost respect for the position of mail carrier. Day after day (except Sundays and holidays), through rain, sleet, dark of night (I’ve never received any mail after 4 PM, but whatever) and all that jazz, the mail gets safely where it’s supposed to go.

Usually.

Of course, there are the occasional exceptions. Like when I get the mail that should have been delivered to the house a block down which has two numbers transposed with my address. But that’s no big deal. How can I complain about walking a block to deliver mail when the postal carrier has to walk miles every day doing the same thing?

Maybe because I’m not getting paid to do it.

But look at me, being so picky. I suppose I should lighten up. So the mail gets delivered accidentally to a nearby address. The person sorting obviously looked at the numbers too quickly and didn’t realize that all the rest of the mail in that pile except for the one they were dropping on top had the exact same last name.

Not looking closely would also explain the apparent disregard for the bold printed words across my protective cardboard comic book inserts that read DO NOT BEND. This must just be an honest oversight (every week) by the carrier while trying to provide with extra speedy service before that whole dark of night thing sets in. I’d hate to think that there is some sort of personal vendetta against me or my reading material that would lead my mail carrier to jam my comic books into my amply-sized mailbox folded lengthwise like a single to be tuck into a g-string.

It’s entirely possible, I reckon, that I’m the one who isn’t paying attention to the details. Maybe somewhere on the insert, after the instructions of DO NOT BEND is a finer print that reads:

…unless you feel like it…

…or…

…unless it’s necessary to fit it in the mailbox, because setting it between the doors just looks shoddy and you, valiant and dashing mail carrier, are better than that…

…or…

…unless this jerk gets so many catalogs and junk mail every day that it weighs down your bag and you’ll be requiring shoulder surgery after retirement as you attempt to lug it around this godforsaken neighborhood, because that is obviously the homeowner’s fault, not the fault of any of the companies sending out the junk mail. Do you hear me? He’s ruining your retirement! Are you going to let him get away with that?!

(Note: I just checked and none of these things are written on the inserts. There goes that theory.)

Honestly, to pick up on all the details contained within the average day’s worth of mail, the sorter and deliverer would have to be really getting a good look at each item. Perhaps it’s for the best that they don’t. Perhaps I should feel lucky that I don’t have Big Brother poring over my day’s correspondence for any signs I may not be on the up and up. Maybe one day my wife will be out of town without me and in her longing to see me and hold me close she will send me a steamy post card. References to all sorts of naughty details that I don't want anybody else reading would, no doubt, be written there. I would certainly want some privacy then. Surely, then I will see the benefits in the details of my mail being glanced over by those handling it.

Of course, should that mail get delivered to the house a block down with two numbers transposed, all that privacy goes out the window and I think then I’ll be kind of pissed.