Didn’t you see the sign on the door?

I’m in sinus hell today.  It’s so humid outside, it feels like breathing through a wet sponge.  I just finished writing another letter to the USPS.  It’s a complaint, of course.  I got one out of two packages supposed to be delivered today, but both were reported as delivered.  This is the third time in 3 months that I’ve had this exact issue.  Oddly, my first complaint was far more vehement.  Proof that therapy is helping.  I didn’t even know it was quirky to write complaint letters until a few months ago.  Complaint letters are something I’ve been writing since I was four, and discovered our typewriter.

I felt clever about it, because I thought I’d discovered a great equalizer between those considered children, and those considered adults.  Nobody could tell (in my mind), that I wasn’t an adult when I typed my complaints.  I knew that would give them more power.  Now I recognize the fact that most people don’t bother writing them.  At first, I was bummed by this information.  It suddenly felt as ineffective as talking about, rather than voting in elections.  But I still write them, sometimes.  It helps me feel less powerless in a world where all is subject to relativity.  At least they’re getting shorter, and slightly less condescending.  I think my goal for September will be to shorten them to the length of a Tweet.  I was going to say stop sending them, but I prefer acknowledging reality.

I get so intensely frustrated when things like this happen.  I internalize as much as I can, but so far, some still leaks out in complaint letters.  I think I automatically stop internalizing when I get too close to the meltdown barrier.  I’m slowly getting a stronger sense of where it is.  It’s hard, because narrowing down the point where a meltdown occurs feels a lot like playing Russian Roulette in slow motion, ten minutes after winning the lottery.  The whole process makes me cranky.  Now that I’ve sent the letter, I’ve calmed down considerably.  This is a situation that used to always end in tears, and I’m not even that upset anymore.  Nice.  Further proof in efficacy of therapy.  I love that word:  efficacy.  So, dear USPS, there will come a day when I shrug off your constant incompetence, and carry on- like it never even happened.  (And I didn’t even immediately follow that thought with- and that’s the day I live within walking distance of a brick and mortar Amazon store.)

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