A few minutes ago, I went to the Post Office exactly the way I scrambled out of bed this morning. Pajamas, unwashed face, greasy bangs, the works. Well, I did put polka dotted rubber boots and a jacket on, but my flannel, snowflake pajamas were clearly showcased in all their glory.
And you know what? I could care less. I wasn't embarrassed. Mama said, "just don't go in if there's a car in the parking lot." But there wasn't. So I clunked in and did my little transaction, then clunked out. I even waved to somebody in the next parking lot.
The way I see it, half of Tippah County has been to Wal-Mart or the grocery store or something along those lines in their pajamas, so I'm just getting in touch with my small town roots.
Don't ask me what I mean by that last statement; I couldn't really give you an answer. It just sounded relevant.
While we're more or less talking about post offices, this is a short story of Eudora Welty's called "Why I Live at the P.O." - and it's quite amusing. I read it, laugh, then thank God my family isn't like that.
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1 comment:
Ha. I'm glad you're so in touch with your small town roots.
And I just read that one a couple of days ago.
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