Have you ever met someone who obviously needs people to like her? Someone who goes out of her way to “people please”? The one who overcompensates at the grocery store checkoutfor the complaint-filled crabapple in front of her by smiling so hard at the clerk she runs the risk of splitting her lips open? The one who desperately institutes a peace-keeping mission when anyone in her life is quarreling?<\/p>\n

Well…that used to be me. I grew up. I decided I can’t be responsible for everyone’s happiness. I don’t need<\/em> people to like me. I know that I am quite a catch as a friend or acquaintanceand anyone who doesn’t recognize that fact is…well, not worth being a friend. And this new attitude suits me. I’m solid as a rock.<\/p>\n

Until recently. I was met with an obstacle which shook the very core of my newfound resilience.<\/p>\n

The backstory: I live in a neighborhood with locked mailboxes placed in central locations. On some occasions, I’m lucky to check my mail 3 or 4 times a week because:<\/p>\n

1) I’m lazy.<\/p>\n

2) I have this super ability to cause torrential downpours of rain whenever I step out of doors.<\/p>\n

3) I tend to lose my mail key. I havea feeling the 3 year old might have something to do with that.<\/p>\n

4) I’m lazy.<\/p>\n

Now, due to the reasons stated above I have little to no physical interaction with my mail carrier. I see him drive his little truck up to the mailbox, do his thing, and drive off.<\/p>\n

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve had several packages delivered via regular mail. Thelocked mailbox does have a special box for packages but if you’re receiving anything larger thana package of spaghetti noodlesthe carrier has to bring it to your house.<\/p>\n

I’ve discovered a little something about my particular carrier. He doesn’t care for this procedure. At all.<\/p>\n

The first couple of deliveries weren’t so bad. He rings my doorbell, I open the door, he hands me the package with a jaunty little nod and walks back to his mailtruck. Easy peasy.<\/p>\n

Well, something changed.<\/p>\n

Two days ago I hear my doorbell ring. Normally I answer right away but on this particular day I was…well…okay, naked. Because I just got out of the shower. (Get your heads out of the gutter, people.) So I had to throw on some clothes before I could get to the door. He rings it again. I yell out, “I’ll be right there,” as I’m hopping down the hallway on one foot while the other is being shoved into a hot little pair of designer jeans…okay, sweatpants. I get to the door, throw it open and there stands my mail carrier. Looking annoyed. Like, really annoyed.<\/p>\n

I said, “Well, hi. I’m sorry it took me a minute to get to the door.”<\/p>\n

“Mm hmm,” he answers, handing me the delivery slip.<\/p>\n

“Yeah, I was actually in the back of the house and so it took me a little bit of time to get here,” I answer as I scribble my name.<\/p>\n

“Mm hmm,” he answers. He shoves the package at me, does an about-face and marches to his mailtruck.<\/p>\n

“Um…thank you!” I call…to his back.<\/p>\n

“Mm hmm,” he responds as he climbs into his truck.<\/p>\n

‘Hey, I appreciate you bringing this to the door!” I yell back.<\/p>\n

He waves at me through his door, obviously anxious to get away.<\/p>\n

“Man, it’s been cold, huh?” I ask, desperately.<\/p>\n

He waves again and starts his engine and peels away like a NASCAR driver, probably hoping to escape before the crazy stalker lady pulls him out of his little truck and ties him up in her basement.<\/p>\n

Okay, so that was bad. But then I got another package.<\/p>\n

I open the door after hearing the bell ring and see the mailman standing there, reluctantly.<\/p>\n

“Well, hello,” I say. “It’s you again.” Like it would be any other mailman.<\/p>\n

“Mm hmm,” he says, attempting to set the humongous box he was holding in my entry way.<\/p>\n

“So, have you all been pretty busy?” I ask, trying to engage the man in conversation consisting of more than “mm hmm” and my pathetic butt-kissing.<\/p>\n

Much to my frustration, he answers, “Mm hmm.”<\/p>\n

And then, at that very moment we lock eyes. I take this opportunity to shine my most friendly, mail-carrier supportive, caring smile at the man. And you know what he does?<\/p>\n

He narrows his eyes at me and frowns. An actual “Lord deliver me from this woman” frown.<\/p>\n

He hates me.<\/p>\n

I moved aside so he could set the box down, said “Thank you” and closed the door behind him. I’m bowing out gracefully on this one, folks. There is just no pleasing this man. I found myself momentarily retreating back to my old ways of desperate friend-finding and quite honestly, I didn’ t like it.<\/p>\n

I guess it just isn’t meant to be between me and Mr. Mailman. He’ll just have to keep delivering his boxes and I’ll just have to keep accepting his morose attitude. It is what it is. And I’ve finally accepted that.<\/p>\n

*ding* Whoops, I’ll have to sign off fornow. My cookies are done and I need to get them out to the box before the mailman get’s here.<\/p>\n

Mindy<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Have you ever met someone who obviously needs people to like her? Someone who goes out of her way to “people please”? The one who overcompensates at the grocery store checkoutfor the complaint-filled crabapple in front of her by smiling so hard at the clerk she runs the risk of splitting her lips open? The […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[287,286,65],"class_list":{"0":"post-1056","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-stuff","7":"tag-enemies","8":"tag-friends","9":"tag-the-suburban-life","10":"entry"},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.thesuburbanlife.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1056","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.thesuburbanlife.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.thesuburbanlife.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.thesuburbanlife.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.thesuburbanlife.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1056"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/www.thesuburbanlife.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1056\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1064,"href":"https:\/\/www.thesuburbanlife.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1056\/revisions\/1064"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.thesuburbanlife.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1056"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.thesuburbanlife.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1056"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.thesuburbanlife.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1056"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}