You can read Part 1 here.
Sadly, My Imagination is just as (over) active today as it ever was. I realize it’s my fault for letting My Imagination run wild, but I often can’t seem to escape its snare. Usually it’s not a big deal, because I realize that I’m getting carried away. Of course, sometimes, even though I know that, I still can’t help it. It makes for extremely embarrassing (or funny depending on your viewpoint) situations such as one I experienced one afternoon at the Post Office.
I was at the Post Office because I made the mistake of selecting Super Saver Shipping when ordering some books. This shouldn’t have been a problem, but when I dropped by my house during lunch I found a notice that my package would be held at the Post Office and that I could pick it up after a certain time or they would attempt delivery the next day.
Fortunately, I took a later lunch that day and it was well past the time the notice stated I could pick up my package. I still had time, so I stopped by the Post Office on my way back to work.
When it was my turn, I stepped up to the counter and gave my name, the notice, and my tracking number. The postal worker tapped on her keys for a moment. She stopped typing and stared curiously at her screen.
“That’s odd,” she said.
“This says it’s already been delivered.”
“Well, it hasn’t. At least not at my house.”
“Are you sure?”
“Ok, let me check something.” She walked away from the counter and out of view. My mind was just beginning to wander about what actually went on behind the doors when she came back.
“I spoke to your carrier. She says she delivered it.”
“But I don’t have it.”
“Ok, let me check again.” She disappeared through the doors again. I started to imagine that they were in the back and laughing at me (this was not true). She came back out.
“Okay, your package was delivered, just not to your house.”
“Cool. Wait . . . what?”
“Your package was delivered to the wrong house.”
“How does that happen?”
“I’m not really sure, but she said she thinks she remembers where she delivered it.”
“I’m really sorry about this. We will try to deliver it again tomorrow.”
“Could I just pick it up here?”
“Actually, yes. Just come back by after 3:00 and e should have it.”
“Okay, I’ll do that. I’ll just stop on my way home from work.”
“I am really sorry about this.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s really no big deal. I’ll just get it after work.” With that, I left knowing I’d still be able to read my books that night, which was all I really wanted from them.
On my way home, I stopped back in. Fortunately, the same postal worker was still at the counter and recognized me from before.
“Hey,” she said, “Let me just run back and get it.” She went to the back again. I’m generally kind of impatient, but she really seemed to take a long time. That was when the trouble started. My Imagination stopped thinking about the workers being just out of sight ridiculing me and started dreaming up much less likely scenarios.
My Imagination provided a rich story line currently unfolding in the back. I imagined her coming back out and saying, “You’ve been selected,” in monotone. The she would pull out a large gun and attempt to shoot me at which point my amazing cat-like reflexes (hey this is My Imagination after all) would allow me to dodge. This would start a frantic escape from the Post Office as glass shattered and bullets tore the air leading into a car chase through the streets of Clarksville. Then there would come the fight to stay alive while trying to unravel the mystery of what was going on. It would all culminate in a crazy shootout/fist fight on the old rail bridge across the Cumberland River on Riverside Drive (which would, of course, actually operate and begin turning dramatically).
It was far-fetched, but I actually enjoyed imagining it. I’m also ready to write it as a spec script for Hollywood (go on and tell me you wouldn’t watch that). The problem was, My Imagination started making the details so rich and realistic that somehow my waking brain started believing it might, slightly, possibly, just maybe, be a little bit plausible. Once I acknowledged that in some version of reality this could actually happen, my pulse quickened. I started unconsciously checking for exits and possible escape routes. I felt exposed and started eyeing the other customers as well.
As the minutes stretched on without her return, My Imagination prodded the idea that not only could this happen in some reality, but it was possible right now. I understood that it wasn’t really possible, but I have a very, very good imagination (I was even able to imagine that Michael Bay might one day make a decent movie, at least until the travesty that was Transformers 2 came out).
I tried to calm myself as I stared at the back behind the counter. I waited for the doors to open and stood slightly on my toes, ready to spring to action. The door did open and I acted instinctively.
“I finally found the . . . where’d you go?” I was crouching on the floor.
“Uh, I’m down here. I had to, uh, tie my shoe.” I sheepishly stood back up.
“Sorry it took so long. It got put in the wrong cubby. I was worried when it wasn’t where it was supposed to be that you were really going to think we were stupid or something.” Right, think they were stupid.
I laughed somewhat nervously and said, “Hey we all make mistakes. It’s no big deal, Really. Thanks so much for your help.”
“Are you okay?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you seem a little jumpy.”
“I’m fine,” I said while I wiped a drop of sweat that chose and incredibly inconvenient moment to run down my forehead, “I’m just, uh, excited about my books. That’s what’s in the package. Books.”
She seemed unconvinced, but wished me a pleasant evening. I was incredibly relieved to walk outside. I just hoped she didn’t notice my laceless slip on shoes.