Today I received a friendly reminder that I talk too much, and in doing so, mess up life for everyone involved.
My lesson started as I melted away still more inches from my frame in one of those man-made magma vents called a laundry room. My particular location multitasks as a mail receptacle, which quaintly explains why in walked the mailman.
"Kirby, correct?" he said, having discussed my name and life the last time I tried drying my clothes while sweating through the lot of them. And thus we started another exchange about life, happiness, and the wonderful world of mail delivery.
I had much to consider on that subject... you see, I recently crossed paths with a female mailman delivering her precious cargo by foot. Having thought this job had been extinct since the dawn of bar codes, I asked him about that, and off we went.
I soon noticed an old gentleman fumbling with the lock at the door, so I opened it to let him in. I thought perhaps this balding neighbor enjoyed my company, since his poodle just couldn't stop barking at me every time I drew near, but the man looked into the room, saw me and the postman, and turned to leave.
And so the mail carrier and I continued to employ this process of verbal communication, dancing from my (and his) interest in the pony express to the challenges and dangers carriers face to whether the USPS would soon dive into electric vehicles (he doesn't think so).
That's when the old gent again appeared to fiddle at the door. So I once more opened it. He looked in, frowned, and walked off.
This happened again, and again, until finally my valued deliverer of all our postal needs had completed his chores and moved on. This pleased the poodle owner to no end, once I let him into my sudsy sauna.
"His truck's been blocking me in for 15 minutes," he said before leaving.