Remember how, in the movie (1942) “Casablanca,” to get to America you went to Casablanca in Morocco — and then you waited, and waited, and waited?
I ordered a sweater. It was on sale. I bought it at the end of November. It was wandering between various locations in Illinois, then went to Windsor, Connecticut where it sat for a few days, then came (theoretically) to Uxbridge. No one accepted the package at our only post office, so it went back to Windsor, Connecticut. It stayed there a couple of days. Three days ago it was (again, theoretically) returned to the Uxbridge post office has still not been accepted. So, it waits, and waits, and waits.
Mind you we only have that single post office which is about half a mile from here. This isn’t a big town and we don’t have a lot of streets. No major highways. All we have is Main Street which is also Route 122. The Post Office is on Route 146 which might be, but I’m not sure, Quaker Highway. That road changes names about every 300 feet, so it could be anything. Who know? We go by numbers because while roads change names, the number stays the same.
The package has yet to be “accepted” by the post office nor has it been scheduled for delivery. It’s — like me — waiting, and waiting, and waiting.
If I don’t get it by the end of the week, I can get my money back. I’d much rather have the sweater. It’s a nice sweater, dark red cashmere. I got it at a terrific discount AND it’s the right size.
I’m convinced I will never see it. I think it’s lost somewhere, possibly in a bathroom between Windsor, Connecticut and Uxbridge, Massachusetts. The one place I know it isn’t, is here.
I’m waiting. And waiting. And waiting. This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Or not.