(I get in the very long line at the post office and notice a woman ahead of me who has two very large cardboard boxes, still folded flat, and an enormous bag filled with sports equipment such as helmets and lacrosse sticks. Eventually, it’s her turn and she dumps everything onto the small counter.)

Woman: “I need to mail these. I have the addresses here.” *holds up two pieces of computer paper*

Worker: “Ma’am, we cannot package your items for you. You need to step aside and prepare the boxes for shipment.”

(The woman moves only about six inches over and starts wrestling with the boxes. The next customer squeezes past her. A few minutes later, the woman puts both boxes back on the counter on their sides, with the tops and bottoms still open.)

Woman: *interrupting current customer* “I’m done. How much is it to ship them?”

Worker: *in the same monotone voice as before* “Ma’am, I need you to close and secure those boxes. We cannot ship them like that.”

Woman: “Close them how?”

Worker: “Tape.”

Woman: “I don’t have any. Give me your tape.”

(The worker wordlessly hands over a roll of packaging tape. The woman tries to roll it over the boxes without peeling back the tape and ends up asking for help. Eventually, using the entire roll of tape, she gets the boxes closed. Two more customers have been served.)

Woman: “Done!”

Worker: *without looking up* “You need to address those boxes.”

Woman: “I have the addresses.” *holds up papers again*

Worker: “They need to be on the boxes.”

(The woman places the papers on the top of each box and pushes them closer to the worker. Someone behind me snorts back a laugh.)

Worker: *still totally unfazed* “We cannot mail them like that. If you want to use those papers, they must be connected to the box. Please step aside until you are ready.”

(Not being able to take it anymore and seeing the woman’s blank face and empty tape roll, I step out of line to help.)

Me: “Ma’am, would you like to use my tape?”

Woman: “Oh, thank you so much!”

Me: “You’re very welcome. What they need you to do is make sure the address won’t fall off, or else they won’t know where to send your packages. You should go ahead and cover all the edges of the paper. Or I have a marker if you’d rather write it out…”

(The woman happily hands me back my tape as I’m still speaking, with one tiny, solitary square attaching each sheet of paper to the side of its box.)

Me: “Um, are you sure you don’t want a bit more? You can use as much as you like. You really need to secure those.”

Woman: “No, that’s all right! But thank you.” *turns back to the worker and proudly puts boxes back on the counter* “I’m ready now! My sons need these.”

Worker: *slowly looking at each box and then up and down the woman with no other change of expression* “Based on their weight, your total is [total].”

(The woman pays and leaves.)

Worker: *still monotone, still expressionless* “Lord Jesus, some f****** people. Next in line, please.”

(Both my mom and my oldest brother are disabled — her from back surgery, him from a motorcycle accident that required a plate in his leg, then later on an accident at a construction site where he fell off a ladder and went feet-first into a huge pile of drywall, leaving him needing reconstructive surgery on his ankles. We’re going to the post office to put some bills in the mail directly. I can’t stand my brother’s music, so I have my CD walkman with me and I’m listening to Barry Manilow. The parking lot is crowded but there’s one handicapped space left, so we throw up the placard and I get out to put the mail in the inside box. A woman taps me on the shoulder, so I take one headphone off my ear.)

Woman: “Excuse me. Do you have a handicapped placard?”

Me: *pointing to it* “Yes, my brother and mom are both disabled, and you can see it’s hanging up.”

Woman: “Well, my mother is disabled and I just had to park on the other side of the parking lot.”

Me: “Well, we do have a placard.”

Woman: “I should’ve been able to park there since I have a placard for my mother!”

Me: *motioning to where the placard can be clearly seen* “So do we.”

(I put my headphones back on and head inside, annoyed that this woman kept me from doing what would’ve taken me less than ten seconds just to whine when we have a placard, too. She’s gone when I get back to the car.)

Brother: “She was still shaking her head and talking to you when you walked away.”

Me: *sighs and goes back to listening to Barry Manilow*

(My mom is an emotional wreck after her mother dies, but is doing her best to get everything sorted. Although the death itself was quite sudden, Oma, my grandmother, had been on the decline for years and Mom was already thoroughly entrenched in her affairs since Oma was no longer of sound enough mind to handle her own things. One thing that needs sorted is getting Oma’s mail forwarded to my parents’ house. I forget what the specific paperwork they need is, but it involves getting official documents notarized to prove a) that Oma is dead, and b) that Mom is officially her next-of-kin. Neither getting the documents nor getting them notarized is a particularly speedy process. Getting a deceased relative’s mail forwarded is free. My sister and I don’t live in the same city by then, but we are in fairly constant contact during the first few weeks, knowing how fragile Mom’s emotional state is. Mom is on the phone with me, winding down her rant about how much trouble she has been having getting Oma declared dead at the post office.)

Mom: “…so, I eventually just left because I was obviously getting nowhere with this.”

Me: “So, what did you do?”

Mom: “I went out to my car, took a few deep breaths, drove to the bank, got my Power of Attorney out of the safety deposit box, walked across the street to the Post Office downtown, didn’t tell them she was dead, paid the twelve d*** bucks, and got them to forward it, instead.”

(I need to renew my passport because I have gotten married. I have all the forms needed to submit for a new passport with my married name, including an official copy of my marriage certificate that I bought at city hall. Admittedly, I am a bit flustered by the time I speak with the worker because this post office has been hard to find, and I spent about ten minutes trying to find it. After waiting in a short line, I finally get to speak to the one worker at the desk.)

Me: “Hi. I’m here to apply for a new passport.”

Worker: “Okay, do you have the money and paperwork?”

Me: “Yep! Got the paperwork filled out and a check right here.”

Worker: “Oh, we only do cash.”

Me: “Really? But I don’t have enough on me.”

Worker: “There is a gas station down the road with an ATM. You can get cash there.”

Me: “Okay.”

(I’m annoyed, but that’s my fault for not seeing that they only do cash. After withdrawing the $110, I go back, wait in line and talk to the same worker.)

Me: “Okay, got the cash, got the paperwork.”

Worker: “Do you have the two forms of ID?”

Me: “Yep. Driver’s license and old passport. And since the old passport is in my maiden name, I also brought a copy of my marriage license with me.”

Worker: “I can’t accept this. It’s a copy.”

Me: “Yes, it’s a notarized copy.”

Worker: “I can’t send a copy. It won’t work.”

Me: “I can assure you it will. This is why I paid $2 for it. It is an official copy.”

Worker: “They’ll just send your application back and you’ll be out the money. You have to send in the original.”

Me: “I’m not mailing out my actual marriage license. The copy will work. Mail my passport application out with it.”

Worker: “It won’t work. I’m going to write a note on it that I told you it won’t work so you can’t argue to get your money back when they send it back.”

Me: “Fine, just send it out.”

(A few months later I got my new passport, and all the documents I had submitted with the application. I took great pleasure in throwing her stupid note away.)

It’s a busy day at the post office, even with all three clerks working. I’m currently third in line waiting to mail a few packages. I am sat next to the second in line, a middle-aged lady who’s been complaining about the lack of efficiency.

She won’t shut up about how she “had to take a number and wait ten minutes just to buy a packet of envelopes, then step out of line, put her letters in the newly-purchased envelopes and write the addresses — three in total — take a new number, and wait another ten minutes to get the letters stamped, paid for, and sent. I mean, it’s ridiculous!” Just as she says that last part, a young woman walks into the post office. She’s probably in her early 20s, wearing a black dress and heeled boots, listening to music. The middle-aged woman immediately shifts her attention to the new arrival, and starts to complain about “today’s youth.”

The young woman does a quick scan of the room before taking a number. Then she walks over to one of the walls, plucks down a packet of windowed envelopes, carefully opens said packet and takes an envelope. She puts her letter in it, and inspects the front before sealing the envelope. Then she sits down, with her letter and the opened packet of envelopes in her lap, pulls a book out of her bag, and starts to read.

The middle-aged lady, having stuttered out a few confused noises while gesturing towards the young woman, is finally called to the counter and complains, mostly about the actions of the young woman — “I mean, she can’t do that! Just taking envelopes like that? That’s stealing!” — throughout the entire transaction, wasting another five minutes before leaving in a huff, glaring at the young woman.

The young woman is eventually called up to the clerk next to me. She takes out both earbuds — where most younger people, in my experience, would only remove one — hands the clerk the letter and the opened packet of envelopes, pays for both, smiles and thanks the clerk, and leaves with the rest of her envelopes. The whole transaction takes less than 30 seconds.

“Lack of efficiency,” indeed.