The guys we get at the office who deliver USPS and UPS packages are always the same. They are constant and recognizable, not even just by their uniform. I can recognize them in other buildings outside of work. They are great guys, both polite and efficient. I have to deal with the the packages that pour in daily, so those who deliver them are very much on my radar as part of my job.
That being said, I have made a complete fool of myself with two different FedEx workers in the past few weeks. I’m genuinely ashamed of myself. I wasn’t devastatingly stupid, I guess, but the interaction was enough to send my anxiety into a downward spiral of, “If you were normal, you would have handled that a lot better.” I might as well just make that the mantra of my life, except if I was normal, I probably wouldn’t have such interesting stories to share, thus the trouble with pros and cons.
FedEx Guy #1: I was sitting up at the front. It was one of the days that I had to be the concierge because we don’t have enough concierge team members to cover all hours that we’re open. Naturally, I was exhausted and a little out of it because they do so much. I don’t even know how I used to do that job. Anyway, I heard the side door open, which no one really goes through unless it’s a client that used the bathroom in the hall, or it’s a practitioner who’s using the Ashi or Paris treatment rooms that sneaks in. As master and ruler of the schedule, I knew that neither of these were a possibility. Everyone was in the middle of service.
So I turned around to gawk in a “What the hell is going on?” manner at whoever was just moseying into the spa. That’s when I saw the blindingly attractive FedEx worker looking directly into my soul with his beautiful eyes. I think my mouth just dropped open. I know that my brain stopped working. He had a package for one of the other offices in the building. Whenever they’re not in, we always get their deliveries. He wanted to know if it was okay to leave it with us and tape a note to the other office’s door, letting them know it was with us. Standard procedure.
I just nodded with really open eyes. I may have weakly pointed to the counter where he could deposit the package. Some, “Buh-ah-uh. Yep.” action might have happened. It was a terrifyingly embarrassing moment that you think only happens in movies until it happens to you and then you realize that you’re just going to have to go hide in some dark whole in Tibet for the rest of your life.
Luckily, I may have smiled. I’m sure I smiled in an intelligent and personable manner, because even though I had acted like a proper idiot seconds before, he smiled in an unmocking way at me. Like, “It happens.” Probably for him, he gets this reaction a lot.
I am full of shame.
FedEx Guy #2: Arguably, my mind was out of it. I have these days where my brain feels stuffed with wet cotton balls. I can’t focus and I can’t pull my thoughts together. It’s difficult to talk to people or tell them what I need to tell them because it’s physically difficult to get everything out of my brain in an intelligent matter. I think I come of being drugged.
The day of this incident, I’d walked down to the front desk to tell someone something. I’d stopped at the first computer, the one people initially walk to when entering the spa. I’d stopped because even in that moment I didn’t know what I was doing or what I needed to say. I didn’t even greet the other people at the desk. i just stood there with my dazed expression, inwardly trying to pull shit together. As I fumbled around in my grey matter, a different FedEx guy than from before entered with a box.
I managed to click into customer service mode. Greeting clients closely resembled greeting delivery people. I can flawlessly say, “Hi, how are you?” with a warm smile whenever a person enters the door. Instead of asking his name, I let him tell me that he has a package for us. Duh, but also standard procedure. He held out the box, and this is when my brain started to stutter.
I looked at him like he’d grown a second head. Really, I was thinking, “Is he going to hand it to me or is he going to set it down.” I hate that. I hate reaching out to grab the box just as they put it on the floor. It’s one of those moments where I feel like the stupidest person on the planet, and I can’t fully explain why that’s my reaction to that situation. On his side, I wasn’t really forthcoming in grabbing the box. So he held it out for me, decided maybe he should put it on the floor, and then saw me reach out my hands so held it back out for me. Basically, I make every interaction unnecessarily awkward for everyone involved.
“Watch out, it’s heavy,” he warned. Which was nice, but my brain hurt already. I wasn’t even able to look him in the eye. I stared at the box like I’d never seen a piece of mail before.
“Oh God,” I muttered, taking hold of the full weight of the box because I know that it’s a stock phrase people say in this situation. I was rewarded with a laugh. I balanced the box between me and the corner of the desk while signed his little doohickey machine. Even on paper, my signature looks like I went to med school.
“Last name?” which is the question all delivery people ask after you sign.
“Sherouse,” I responded. But then, I’m weirded out by how they only ask for my last name. Like. I know you don’t know how to spell my name just by hearing it. You definitely can’t tell my last name by that signature. So I added, “S. H. E-r-o-u-s-e.” He started walking away before I said my last name. He gave me look back at the door, but then just left.
I was on an instant acid trip. I couldn’t even begin to process the fact that this guy probably thought there was something mentally wrong with me. You see, I’ve never once spelled my name that fast. I have a melody for spelling it. S-h. E-r. O-u. S-e. It’s not a common name so I give two letters at a time. I try to be conscientious to the speller. That day, though. I sped through the last six letters like they were on fire. It was so fast that my brain kept repeating it, like, “What the hell did I just say? Did I spell that right? Is that my name?” And then my brain proceeded to spell my name eighty times at an exaggeratedly slow pace.
Guys. A practitioner had to lead me to the break room and open doors for me because I needed that much help. It was bad.
I’m pretty sure I’m on some list in the back room of a FedEx office. “Watch out for that Coke’d out worker at that spa. She needs HELP.”