A rare indulgence I allow myself is weekend home delivery of the New York Times. Padding out in my slippers to the blue bag waiting at the end of the driveway makes me happy. However, for the second weekend in a row, my joy has been missing.
I reported the problem and presumed they’d get it straight this weekend. No such luck. Yesterday, Saturday – when all the good stuff is delivered: Magazine and Book Review, Travel and Arts and Leisure sections – no blue bag. I called again, this time pushing past the automation to a human being. I requested that today, the complete paper be delivered – with all the juicy sections that make the Sunday Times such fun.
Stepping outside on this cold early morning, there was the blue bag at the end of the driveway, but too slim to contain the entire paper – and indeed, it did not. Once again I called the delivery number and voiced my outrage. With rapid-fire imperiousness, I informed the calm voice at the end of the phone line that if all of the Sunday sections were not delivered by later today, I would cancel my subscription.
Now, yesterday’s woman didn’t adequately communicate my annoyance to the local delivery person and I wanted to make sure that today, she did. But still, I began feeling ashamed for being such a bitch. I mean, it’s not the fault of the woman on the other end of the line. I said as much to her and apologized that she had to bear the brunt of my disappointment. She was gracious but I recognized the tightening in her voice as she tried to control her annoyance with me. I have experienced the ire of strangers frustrated with the company I work for and it’s easy to take it personally. Of course that’s what customer service is all about: fielding complaints and solving problems. But still, by the end of the call, I felt a bit like an ass. This is about the newspaper. Not being at my front door. Really. My life is pretty good.
Hardly a bitch. I go through something vaguely similar every Sunday, when I’m up and ready to pad out and get my Times…. and it’s never there till, oh, ten or so. Eleven. Now I know our delivery man goes to church, hence the late delivery. So how much of a bitch would I be if I said, “Um, sir? I’d, um, really really like my paper before you go to church.” A really bitchy bitch. So I wait. Drink more coffee. Clean up. Be happy, as you are, to have the luxury of getting the paper, in its original form, at all.
Love this Tricia. Because of course it fits so many situations that are not such a big deal, but that make us ….well, someone we don’t like as much as our usual, patient selves. It’s interesting really…I think I handle bigger problems far better than the small ones. As I go forward in life and learn perspective, learn to be grateful, learn to pay attention, I’m still an anxious loony over the small stuff.