Going Postal

It’s a boring story so I’ll spare you the details but I had to get a new postage meter for the office. And lucky me, it arrived today. It’s real purdy. It’s light gray and has a scale and lots of buttons and it makes me happy. Not as happy as a white peach in the middle of summer but pretty darn close. Anyway, within ten minutes of the box arriving, I was setting it up. As I plugged in cords and unwrapped pieces, that twit coworker of mine hovered nearby and asked questions.

“What’s that?” she inquired.

“A new postage meter,” I answered.

“For what?”

“Postage.”

“Like letters?”

“Uh huh.”

“Big letters too?”

“Yup, even super duper big letters.”

“Wow. That’s exciting,” she finished with a giggle before walking in two circles and disappearing in the bathroom.

I resumed my efforts, tossing scraps of trash in the box and stowing relevant booklets in the nearby cabinet. Then another coworker, D, stopped by to get water from the cooler. I rolled my eyes and nodded to the bathroom door.

“She asked me if you were single,” D whispered.

I lifted an eyebrow.

“Because she wants to set you up with her brother in-law,” she explained with a stifled chuckle as she rested her hand on the meter to weigh it.

“Shutthefuckup,” I whispered back.

“This thing is broken,” D muttered with a sigh while using her free hand to point to the screen reading zero.

“It’s not broken. For the love of God, please tell me you told her I was a lesbian.”

“No, I told her you weren’t dating right now,” D said as she shuffled over to the cooler.

Just then another coworker came by. He looked at the meter, smiled, rested his hand on the scale and then told me it was broken.

“It isn’t broken and why do you guys feel the need to weigh your hands?”

“It’s fun,” he offered.

“Fun how?” I probed.

“Just fun,” he elaborated before lifting his hand, shrugging his shoulders and wandering off to another part of the office.

A few seconds later, the Twit emerged from the bathroom.

“Did you see the meter?” she excitedly asked D.

“Uh huh.”

“It’s for postage,” the Twit explained as she stepped forward and rested her hand on the scale.

I glanced at D, her eyes focused on the Twit’s hand. Then D spoke.

“Don’t say anything.”

“I didn’t,” I defended.

“But you wanted to,” she continued.

“Oh you have no idea,” I responded.

And just then, the Twit offered a kernel of wisdom.

“This thing is broken.”