And thus ends the post office experiment. On a night when I arrived for work soaking wet, sleep deprived, and sporting a hacking cough that would unnerve a roomful of tuberculosis patients, my supervisor decided to “teach me a lesson” about something or other by assigning me, perhaps permanently, to the ONE job I said I wouldn’t do.

I know the zip codes by heart and I was the fastest sorter in the department, but the boss felt my talents were better suited to dumping huge sacks of boxes and parcels onto a conveyer belt. Forever. It’s the absolute worst job in the post office and it requires the arms of an orangutan and the constitution of a navy seal. On my third day, I confessed to the supervisor my back couldn’t handle working that particular station for longer than an hour at a time, and I was told not to worry about it, that my back was covered. Besides, I was too valuable “sorting and sweeping” to spend time dumping sacks.