After spending the day crunching through my egregiously late invoice situation, I wanted to get my mail into circulation first thing Monday morning. The foolproof way of doing this is to drive to the main post office Downtown.
OK, so here's how out of balance I am: it didn't even occur to me that I might have a problem navigating the Downtown streets on a mail errand at 11:30 on a Saturday night!
Thousands of 22 year olds dressed to the nines, enjoying a humid night out. Women dressed in their obligatory halter top and wide-belted low-rise ensembles, followed by guys slouching through the streets in ultra-pressed shirts left deliberately untucked. If you smoke, you'll find yourself trapped in an adult-sized pen on the street outside of a hot nightclub, sharing your personal space with perspiring partiers.
I've probably missed the boat on fitting into that image, and that's fine by me. But I do actually miss taking advantage of a Saturday night on the town. People drop their jaws in amazement when I hit the dance floor and transform from my sedentary, saturnine self to a bona fide booty-shaker without a care in the world. Oh yeah, I can cut a rug. What I lack in actual skill I make up for with hip-swingin' balls-forward spunk.
My mom likes to comment on my life's priorities. When I continue to work through evenings and weekends, she'll poke fun at me: "Well, THAT's a nice way to spend a Saturday evening!". I always tell her that I enjoy what I do and what I'm building, and I can't possibly think of a better use for my time.
But sometimes, like tonight for example, I can think of at least one thing I'd rather be doing than delivering mail.
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