A few months ago, I was faced with a dilemma: How to get my ex-boyfriend’s shit out of my apartment and QUICK because it was annoying me.
How do I do this? I thought. Am I supposed to go all the way to Brooklyn to bring it to him? Should he come to my place? He still has my keys—do I just tell him to take care of it when I’m not home?
So I did what I always do when I need advice—I called my friend Joline, who has faced this issue this before. “Dump his shit in a box, go to the post office, and mail it to him,” she said.
EEEK. I almost had to ask a friend to go with me—no wants to be alone and emotional at a New York City post office. It is hell on earth even when you’re in a good mood. But I toughened up and decided to go it alone. I waited in line while holding the last remaining fragments of my ex in my arms, and you know what? I felt GREAT. I felt empowered and strong. When I got to the counter, I wanted to share my victory with the postal worker. I wanted to say, “Do you want to know what I’m doing? Do you want to know what’s in this box?” I refrained, but I just felt so good—like I had this little secret that I wanted the old mailman to hear about.
The guy then asked if I’d like to send my package priority mail for ten extra dollars. I looked at his name tag and I said, “Herb, he doesn’t deserve it.” He smiled at me, and it was like we had a moment together after all. At least I had a moment. Herb probably thought I was a complete psycho.
Lindsey Gentile is an actor, writer, comedienne, and all-around gal-about-town. Every Thursday, she reports from the front lines of single life in NYC. Check out her website HERE. Need more Big City Siren? No problem.
Miranda
I usually end up donating the stuff to good will, but I like your post office story, too. Will you send him the postage bill? COD?