The Chelsea post office on 23rd and 10th is so full of dysfunction, I couldn’t possibly write down every quip I overhear there.
But one woman’s recent outburst caught me completely off-guard. She went to the window and asked one of the station’s trademark surly tellers what kind of stamps they had.
“Well, we have Black History Month stamps, Disney stamps, Georgia O’Keeffe flowers — ”
“No,” the lady said. “Don’t you have any gender-neutral stamps?”
Everyone in the line started to chime in.
“Come on, lady, stop conversating!” an older woman said.
“Gender neutral? What does that mean? Like, a rock?” the teller asked the customer.
“No, a rock is too male,” a hip young man with a shaggy ’80s mullet said. “A neutered cat? A flower?”
“Too vaginal,” I said.
The lady literally spent 10 minutes at the window, debating about which stamps were the most “gender neutral.”
Finally, in a huff, she asked for a book of flags.
“You sure about those flags?” the mullet guy joked.
And the lady stomped off.