The Woman at the Post Office

I’m waiting impatiently in line at the Post Office last Saturday to pick up my order of ridiculously expensive shampoo. (Side note—it’s sooo not all it’s cracked up to be, and I have since cancelled my “subscription.”) Anyway, I got there early because I had to go to work. Who knew the post office wouldn’t open until 10:00? What a load of crap. On what planet does the post office open at 10:00am? They should definitely be open at 9:00. Strike one for the post office.

I’ve recently moved, so the delivery of said “special shampoo” was sent back to the post office because for some reason, they couldn’t forward it to my new address. All my other mail has been forwarded, why not this? Seriously? How hard is it to forward a little box with a couple of bottles of shampoo? I’m getting more irritated by the second. Strike two.

Dammit! I’m going to be late for work. This is such bullshit. I just want my flippin shampoo! I’m totally out and I don’t want to go buy some “cheap” shampoo at CVS just to hold me over, because then I’ll be stuck with a whole bottle that I won’t even use. Ugh! What is taking so long? I just want to pick up my package and go to work!

I finally get to the front of the line. I hand the man my slip and he goes to retrieve my package. He comes back and tells me there is an additional $7 charge. “Why?” I ask.  I already pay an ungodly amount of money for this stupid shampoo that doesn’t even work, and now he’s telling me I need to pay $7 more dollars? He tells me some bullshit about the package being sent back, and that’s why there’s an extra charge, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. I just need to get outta here. I hand him my debit card. He looks at me and tells me that they can only do cash transactions because it’s Saturday. WHAT?!?!?! Are you effin kidding me ? What the hell difference does it make what day it is? The little magnetic stripe on my card is somehow magically deactivated on Saturdays? I’ve never heard anything so stupid! Goddammit! I look in my wallet and I have only $4 in cash. The post office clerk tells me that he cannot release my package without cash payment. Strike 3 Post Office. You’re out.

I throw a fit. Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but I apparently was loud enough for a lady at the back of the line to hear me. A small, Dark-Haired Woman of about 50 approaches me, her hand extended with three one-dollar bills. “Here,” she says, in a thick accent, “For you.” I look at her face and wonder what kind of person does this. “No,” I say, completely stunned, “I can’t.” “Here,” she says again, and forces the money into my hand. Her eyes are kind, and she touches my hand as she walks back to her place in line. I am so touched; my mood immediately changes. “Thank you, thank you!” I say, “Thank you so much!” I give the clerk the seven dollars and get my package.

As I’m leaving, I stop to thank the Dark Haired Woman again, and notice she is standing with a tall, dark man. “Thank you so much!” I say again, “You just made my day. Really, I can’t thank you enough. That was so sweet of you. Can I have your name and address so I can send you back your money?” The Dark Haired Lady looks at me like she doesn’t know what I am saying, but still has a warm smile on her face. “No, it’s okay,” the man says, “Really, it’s not necessary.” I look at the man, he is smiling. I walk out of the post office feeling like a total asshole, but somehow grateful at the same time. Grateful that there are people like The Dark Haired Woman that exist in the world. And even more grateful that I had had the good fortune to have one cross my path.

This small act of kindness totally changed not only my mood, but my outlook for the day. It snapped me out of my hissy fit and put things into perspective. It’s really not worth it to get that upset over a stupid bottle of shampoo.

And so, from the bottom of my heart, Thank You, Dark Haired Woman. Your random act of kindness touched me and has inspired me to do the same for others. I only hope that I can make such a difference to someone as you did to me.

In the March 1989 issue of Seventeen, I read an article entitled “Confessions of a Bloodthirsty Flower Child.”  Almost twenty-five years later, the content of that article still resonates with me, and has, in fact, inspired me to create a blog.

My heartfelt gratitude goes out to Ms. Jennifer Davidson of Alpharetta, Georgia, the sixteen-year old girl who wrote the article. I wonder if she ever realized the effect her words would have on someone she would never know. And the effect they still would have all these years later. Crazy how that happens, isn’t it? All this is to say that I cannot take responsibility for the (extremely cool) title of my blog, for I must give credit where credit is due. So, Ms. Davidson of Alpharetta, Georgia: I thank you from the bottom of my heart for having inspired me. You wrote words that I read at 18, and now, today at 42, I still remember them clearly. In fact, I still have the original article. I ripped it out and have kept it all these years. You wrote in your article that you “wonder[ed] if there is anyone else like me out there.” You have a kindred spirit somewhere in the world, even if you’ll never know it.

What Ms. Davidson wrote about back in the late 80’s was the two sides of her personality. The peace-loving hippie side and the sharp-tongued, heavy-metal-loving angry side. For as long as I can remember I’ve bounced back and forth, wondering how to reconcile these two sides of me. I even have tattoos on my arms that demonstrate the opposite sides of my personality. On my right arm, I sport a beautiful, peaceful hippie with flowers in her hair sitting atop a lotus, while my left arm is adorned with a tattooed (yes, my tattoo has tattoos) bad-ass chick on a bright red motorcycle. I got this artwork to illustrate the two sides of my personality, which are often at odds with each other.

I spent years trying to psycho-analyze myself, wondering how such opposite forces could exist within the same body. The Bloodthirsty part wasn’t that hard to figure out. Being raised in the Boston suburbs by a Republican cop father that grew up in the 1950’s; learning by silent example that to be anything less than tough was a sign of weakness, and therefore, unacceptable; being taught to shoot a gun at 7 years of age; it was inevitable that there would be at least some small part of me that would fall under the category of Bloodthirsty.

The Flowerchild, on the other hand, was not as easy to solve. Even though most outsiders think that Massachusetts is a very liberal place because of “The Kennedys,” I was raised in a pretty conservative environment. Dare I say, even sheltered? I come from a blue-collar town where everyone was conservative, white and Catholic. I can count on one hand the kids “of color” that I graduated with. I remember my brother having one Jewish friend in grammar school, and marveling at the strange and unknown world he must have come from.

Although my mother’s side of the family is mostly Democrats, it was almost as if that were a silent part of my upbringing. I was never told about Conservatives vs. Liberals, or even what to think or how to live or vote or be. And although both silent, the conservative force was somehow much more present in my young life than the liberal one.

When I was a teenager, I loved to listen to music that was way before my time: Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Rolling Stones. And when I went to my first Grateful Dead show in high school, oh my….bare feet, cutoff shorts, a tie-dye shirt that a fellow classmate Steven had made me…I was hooked. What other way could there be to live?  My mother used to joke with me, telling me that I was born 20 years too late. I felt such a strong connection to the 1960’s; the culture, the music, the way of life, the Freedom. But I was never taught or exposed to any of this, I kind of just happened upon it.

Even though my mother was a Democrat, I still always considered her quite conservative. By my standards anyway. She definitely did not encompass the Republican ideals that my father did, but neither did she listen to the Grateful Dead or burn her bra in protest. Where the hell did this hippie side of me come from? Whose child was I?

At some point, I stopped trying to figure it all out and just accepted the fact that this is who I was. I am thankful for both of my personalities: the Bloodthirsty part of me has taught me to be a strong, independent person who is not afraid to speak her mind and fight for what she thinks is right, while the Flowerchild part of me has instilled in me a sense of compassion and love for everyone and everything in the universe.

And so I begin my blog. I have a lot of opinions, and a lot to say. On occasion, I will witness a random act of kindness that I feel the need to share. I believe these random acts of kindness are good for the human race as a whole, even if they are only heard about, and not witnessed firsthand.  And then there are times when something makes me so angry that I just want to stab someone in the eye with a sharp object. Sometimes it may seem as if you are reading writings from two different people, but alas, it is only I, the Bloodthirsty Flowerchild.