Self-Importance Never Wins (especially if you're a courier)

"Priveleged" That was the name of the show. The only TV show ever in the whole world. Ever.

This homey driver (courier, in fancier terms) shows up at work demanding his shipment for the the WARdrobe designer. The only. He has a drop-off, and he needs his package for the WARdrobe designer. There is no package with me for him. In fact, the woman who creates such packages filled with wonder is not even in town at the moment. He becomes agitated, as if this is somehow someone's fault.

Keep in mind, this driver is pushing fifty and has the stretch marks in his faded salmon Hanes Beefy-T pointing towards the center of his belly, which protrudes like the top of my grandmother's rising extra-yeasty bread. His fade orange mustache is reminiscent of that of a male walrus, while his baseball cap shows signs of never having been washed ever. He is wearing faded and bleach-spotted (not on purpose, like the 80's) Lee jeans, and his flip-flops are wearing ever closer to being just flops.

And yet, he is looking disdainfully down upon me in my $2,000 secretary's chair, with my $300 flower arrangement next to me, surrounded by the tens of millions of dollars this company has spent on putting up a good show of competence, as if it is somehow my own doing that his package is not waiting for him to whisk off to his WARdrobe designer.

Let me tell you, speaking down to someone in this company does not win you any favors. Not that I even really care, but he's distracting me from completing my 375th game of FreeCell. Also, the fact that packages have nothing to do with me. So I call the assistant from the PR Department - not the nice, soft-spoken one, but the one who knows how to say things exactly so the target knows he or she is in error.

Homey delivery man continues blustering, especially when I say he needs something for the wardrobe "department," not the designer. He interrupts my message delivery to correct my obviously HORRID error. Luckily, the Marketing Assistant hears this and comes out to speak with him. I sit blithely by as they discuss the issue at hand, namely, that he's obviously not important enough to have package waiting for him at the front reception desk of the wealthiest denim designer in the world. But he thinks he is. Even Vietnamese guys named Kevin Costner have packages waiting for them at this particular front desk. In the end, he is unable to find the package that we obviously hid from him (it was in my pants!), and huffs off like a seventeen year old pageant contestant who has had her prize stolen from her by someone who could find the US on a map.


Priveleged, my booty.